My days were filled with the smallest of concerns, significant to me. Ought I to do laundry or take Katie to the park? Was Elliott happy at school, was I giving him enough attention so that he wouldn’t feel cast off into the world, replaced at home by his joyous little sister? Would Katie be spoiled? Was I giving her less attention than I had given Elliott? Were a few minutes alone with Stephen in the evenings enough, or should I somehow reorganize myself so that he could have more of my time? Did he feel I paid too much attention to the children? He said not, he said I was doing beautifully, wondered how I kept it up, where I got all my energy, but sometimes I wondered if he weren’t going through more than he talked about, weren’t holding back something to protect me from more pressure. Perhaps he felt I was not strong. He seemed content enough, said he enjoyed his new position and thought he handled it well, but still I wondered if I were not failing him somehow, because he was good and I did not think I could ever be so good.

Each day was the same, or so it seems in memory. Katie woke up about six-thirty in the morning, and I would get her started while Stephen got ready for work. Elliott and Stephen always had poached eggs on toast for breakfast, Elliott with juice, Stephen with coffee. I would put the eggs on and Stephen would make the toast and by the time I got Elliott to the table, it was ready. Stephen drove Elliott to school on his way to work, and Katie and I were left to our mornings.

Her breakfast was simultaneous with my first cup of coffee. I never ate breakfast; I just wanted to sit for a few minutes, because those first hours of the day had gone by in a mist, me a robot grinding through them, and this was my first moment of relative peace, although Katie rarely stopped talking, even while she ate. (I am pleased to see that now she is an adult, she has learned the art of silence.)

While I did the dishes, she would tell me a story she had made up overnight. They weren’t always great stories, often the endings were flat, but always they were new and original, and I was proud of that.

“Guess what Mommy,” she’d say, her legs swinging under the kitchen chair that was too high for her, her hands fidgeting with something, her eyes following me while I washed and rinsed the dishes.

“What?”

“A bear came to my room last night.” She would stop in triumph.

“A bear! What on earth did he want? Was he a friendly bear?”

“Oh, very friendly. He wanted me to help him.”

“What did he want you to do?”