“Do you remember the code, Emily darling?”

“No.”

My heart sinks.

“But I watched where Mummy hid the key...”

“Good girl, Em. Excellent.”

I herd her and Felix downstairs. I start making dinner for them: veggie sausages which Emily says taste funny. I wish Nina had at least given some of my suggestions a go, it would’ve made life so much easier for me. I don’t believe in fussy eaters; my baby will eat everything.

“I’ll make you beans on toast,” I say. “Just this once, though. I would like you to try to eat different foods. It’s good not to eat meat.”

“Is that because of not killing animals?” says Felix.

“Yes, exactly that,” I say.

“Mum said that it’s wrong to kill things.”

“Your mum was wise. Why don’t you go and stick the TV on,” I say. “I’ll be back down in a minute.”

I put the beans in the microwave and press two minutes.

I don’t intend to nip upstairs for long, but I am curious. I slide the key into the safe and pull out a small box. I relock the safe and hide the box beneath my side of the bed, fighting the urge to tip the contents out immediately. I return the key to its hiding spot.

The sound of smashing glass coming from the downstairs, followed by a scream, makes me run.

Baked beans ooze across the kitchen tiles. Goldie sniffs them as Felix holds up his right hand covered in blood. Emily won’t stop screaming.

“Move,” I shout at Goldie, trying to save her from getting glass in her paws.

“Stay still,” I yell at Felix as I rush for a clean tea towel and wrap it around his fingers.

“Be quiet, Emily!”

The baby kicks.

“I just wanted to help,” says Felix. “I heard the beep, so I knew it was finished.”

Thankfully, we are saved a trip to the emergency room, but by the time Stuart is home, I’m a complete mess. He says all the right things, but the unsaid is clear: Felix never got burned or cut when Nina was in charge. The non-honeymoon really is over. I am a failure as a protector before I’ve even begun. It only makes me more determined to prove everyone wrong.

Something I read has always stuck in my mind: we can choose truth or happiness. I have always chosen the latter. Perhaps it’s time to change my whole outlook. Starting with whatever is hidden inside Nina’s mystery box.

Twenty-One

Stuart takes an absolute age to go to sleep. The box lies beneath me. I had a peek while he was in the bathroom; it contains Nina’s journals. When I’m certain he’s been asleep for a good ten minutes, I lock myself in the baby’s nursery.

There are two five-year diaries, four lines for each day, starting from when we were both ten, until she switches to plain notebooks with more sporadic entries. I skim, but can’t help stopping every few pages or so when something funny or poignant catches my eye. Nina changed pen colors: green, red, blue, black depending on her mood. (Black, of course, is sad. Red for things she wants to remember. I know this because she underlines them.) It’s strange seeing memorable events written from her point of view. It distorts my own memory.