Content warning: emotional abuse, motherhood, foul language
The first week was weird.
For the most part, she stayed in her bed and didn't talk to anyone.
She replayed scenes over and over again, re-read conversations, deleted e-mails and then pulled them out of her trash bin, taped together paper notes.
You know better, seriously. I know you have trouble with this stuff but you ought to have...
Come on, you know I was just joking. Even you ought to be able to...
When are you going to wake up and...
She cried, a lot. She ate when she felt like she could. She puked, a little bit. Then she cried some more
Sometime in the second week she picked up a book. In her mind, she heard, only kids read that shit.
"Fuck you." She said it out loud, because she could, and she read it. And then the second one in the series.
Maybe watch the movies, I suppose. If there's nothing else on. But why bother with that crap? Come on, do something with your life.
"Fuck you." This time it was louder.
By the third book, she'd stopped reading the old e-mails; she let the deleted ones stay deleted.
You know I want the best for you.
It felt good. It felt really good.
She picked up her knitting. She hadn't knit in ages, and, when she had, it had been furtive.
She went out to the park and started working on something in yellow wool.
Just buy it in a store. It's not like you don't have money...
"Fuck you." She grinned down at the tiny toque. "Fuck you."
Nobody looked at her oddly. You had to do a lot to be looked at oddly, here.
The fifth week, she'd knitted a jacket and booties, too.
You know you're not fit. You know it's better for everyone...
She walked up to the door of the huge Victorian house and knocked on the door. "Lady Maureen?"
The impressive woman who ran the créche raised one elegant eyebrow. Six weeks ago, she'd said one thing. Today...
"I'd like to raise my baby, please."
Because she could. Fuck you.
She was surprised to find she was smiling.
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