‘You pregnant again?’ His eyes went to her belly and her mind flicked back to being thrown over this very table. Yes, she was pregnant again. She lowered her head, admitting the truth. She had only just confirmed it yesterday at the doctor’s surgery. She had put it off and put it off, but she had to know. She was nearly three months pregnant. She had panicked, determined not to blurt it out to Mark, and here she was, doing just that.

‘Now we really can’t leave each other.’ He smirked.

She lowered her head in defeat. Trapped by her own body, his actions, yet again. She couldn’t see any way out of this black hole of a marriage.

‘Don’t get any ideas. I’ll hunt you down. I’ll hurt Wren. You know that I will. Then your parents. So don’t even think about it.’ Mark’s face always took on this intense look whenever he was about to hurt her. It was almost like he checked out mentally then slammed back into focus. He had that look on his face now. He got up and left, and she took her soiled and stained top to the laundry. She didn’t know why she was bleaching it – it was ruined – she should just throw it away, yet she scrubbed and scrubbed away at it, hiding her real fear. She was terrified that this baby would be born dead too. She began to cry until a small skinny arm encircled her waist. ‘I love you, Mom.’

‘I love you too, sweetheart. So very much.’ She dropped a kiss on the top of his head, then held on to him tightly, never wanting to let go.

Six months later and Vanessa was in a hospital bed, petrified that they wouldn’t be able to find a heartbeat. She had felt the baby kick just this morning and rationalized that he or she would be fine. She didn’t have it in her to survive another child’s death, she just didn’t. Mark was a no-show yet again. She’d called him and he’d flat-out refused to come this time. She didn’t beg, she couldn’t stand the thought. He had barely spoken to her since the whole Maggie affair thing and she had been enjoying the relative quiet, but she didn’t want to give birth alone. Wren wanted to come. In fact, he demanded it. He didn’t want to stay next door.

‘I’m coming with you,’ he’d said in his best authoritarian voice, and because she hadn’t had the will to argue, she’d said yes. He was ten now, old enough. He’d been so sincere and serious; she’d known he’d meant it. What could she have said but yes?