Put her with your mother, Peter said, his voice flat. We need time to settle into each other, and the child gets in the way. Just take her there for a couple of days, alright?
Peter, weve been over this a hundred times, I sighed, the edge in my throat tightening. Im not going to hand my daughter over for a few days, or even an hour.
Not hand over! he winced, his face crumpling. God, Claire, come on Im not a monster. Think about itboth of us are thirtyfive, we finally found each other and now youre talking about I want to travel with you, take you to the theatre, to nice restaurants. I want to wake up on a lazy Sunday at twelve and stay in bed until nightfall! With a child, none of that works
Impossible? I snapped back. Youre saying we cant be happy with a child?
Peter didnt answer, but the look on his face told me Id hit the mark.
Peter had stormed into my life just a few months earlier. We collidedliterallyin the dairy aisle of a supermarket. He brushed past me, blushing, apologising over and over, then offered to buy me a coffee as recompense for the moralphysical injury. I agreed. His smile was disarming, the kind that made you lower your guard.
He courted me with a charm that felt like a longneeded drink of water after a desert trek. He got along with my eightyearold daughter, Poppy, better than I expected. He played board games with her, taught her to rollerblade, and even helped with her homework on occasion.
After three years of lonely routine, that chance meeting was a lifeline.
Three months after we started dating, I accepted his proposal. My mother frowned, warning that I barely knew him, but I was convinced I did. I believed he was kind, caring, loving
Three weeks ago Peter first suggested sending Poppy to my mums for a temporary stay. He started by saying it was only for school holidays, then hinted that it might be a permanent solution.
Think about it, he droned, the schools good, the airs cleaner, and
And shes a nuisance to you, I retorted halfjokingly.
He didnt protest. He stared at me, silent, and that silence cut deeper than any argument. Still, I was in love, so I told myself I could endure it. After all, he didnt have children of his own.
By the way, Poppy isnt just a child to me; shes my treasure.
Shes bright, beautiful, and the only remnant of my first marriage. My exhusband, Andrew, remarried and now has twin boys, but he never forgets Poppy. He picks her up on weekends, takes her to the cinema, spoils her. Everything is as it should be, in his eyes.
One rainy afternoon Poppy caught a cold and a fever. Like any sick child, she was irritable. Peter grew tensenot openly angry, but I saw his shoulders tighten whenever she coughed, his eyes roll when I fetched a thermometer.
Maybe your mum could come over? he suggested over breakfast. Shes retired; shes got nothing to do.
I dont think shed understand if I asked her to look after a sick child when Im right here, I replied.
He muttered something under his breath, but I brushed it off. Perhaps he was just tired.
Soon the little things that belonged to Poppy began to grate on him: the noisy cartoons, her infectious laugh. When she invited friends over, he exploded.
Claire, this is too much! he shouted. I work all week and I just want a proper Sunday to relax!
Where am I supposed to hide them? I shot back. In the cupboard? Tie them up?
Or at least take her to the park, he snapped.
I learned to bend around his moods, hoping it would buy him a few hours of peace.
When the school holidays arrived, Peter announced hed bought two seaside breaks.
What about Poppy? I asked.
Shell go to her grandmothersno problem, he replied.
Peter, but were a family, I protested.
He looked at me oddly, then softened.
Claire, this is our honeymoon. No child belongs on a honeymoon, he said.
We never went to the coast. I refused to leave without Poppy; he sulked and returned the tickets, then seemed to thaw a week later.
Peter, I asked one night, do you want children of your own?
Of course, he said brightly. A boy maybe two!
And Poppy? I pressed. Shes yours now, too.
He paused, then said cautiously, Claire, you know yours is yours. I trybuy her toys, take her to clubs Im doing what I can.
I thought, Hes doing what? A favour?
A few days later Poppy brought home a certificatefirst place in a recitation contest. She beamed with pride, waiting all evening for Peter to see it.
He arrived in a sour mood, work clearly on his mind. Poppy thrust the certificate into his hands; he brushed it aside.
Later, love, later, he said flatly.
I saw the light dim in her eyes. She slipped the paper into her bag and retreated to her room in silence.
Peter, what the hell? I demanded. Why would you speak to her like that?
Claire, can we not do this? he winced. Im exhausted. I cant deal with kids trophies right now.
Its not just a trophy. Its our daughters achievement!
Its not my daughter! he blurted, then stopped.
We stood silent. I stared at the floral wallpaper hed never chosen, counting the rosesone, two, three
What are you saying? I asked calmly.
Peter covered his face with his hands.
Claire, Im sorry. I didnt mean Listen, lets be honest. I love youmadly. I thought that, with time, wed live for ourselves, then have our own children together. As for Poppy maybe she stays with her granny, and we visit. Orwell, we could even let her father take her forever. Hes her dad, after all, so he could raise her legally.
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My vision went black.
Get out, I whispered.
What?
Leave my house. Now.
Youve gone mad, Claire, he stammered. This is our flat!
This is my flat, I said coldly. It came from my mother. Youre no longer welcome here.
He stormed out, calling me ungrateful and foolish, promising Id regret it.
I never regretted itnot once.
Later I replayed everything. How could I have been so blind? Id built an ideal man in my head, ignored every red flag, because loneliness had driven me to crave love at any price.
