‘OK,’ I say, hoping she’ll continue.
Danielle looks at her feet. ‘There’s something else. Something he says to me. I know it’s not true, but it makes me feel rubbish, it undermines my confidence.’ She shifts her weight from one side to the other on the sofa.
‘What does he say?’ I speak softly, encouraging her to open up, to tell me whatever it is that is hurting her so much.
‘He says I wouldn’t be a good mother.’
I resist the urge to tell her that of course she’d be a good mother, like I would say if she was a friend, not a client. She needs to find that self-belief on her own.
‘He says he knows me,’ she continues, her speech quickening, as her tears turn into sobs. ‘He says he knows me better than anyone, and that because of that, he can tell I won’t be a good mother.’
I wait as she dabs at her eyes once more. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mumbles. ‘I didn’t mean to break down. I’ve just been trying to keep everything together.’ Her body shakes.
‘It’s OK to feel this way,’ I reply, my words sounding inadequate in the face of her distress.
She stands suddenly. ‘I think I need to go.’
Anxiety radiates from Danielle and I speak softly. ‘This is a safe space. You can say what you need to say here. Feel however you need to feel. There’s no judgement.’
She hesitates for a second, then shakes her head.
‘Why don’t you take a minute to calm down?’ I indicate the sofa.
‘Can I go to the toilet?’ she asks. ‘Have some time to regroup?’
‘Why don’t you do that here?’
‘I need the toilet anyway.’ She smiles through her tears, suddenly calmer. ‘Two birds with one stone.’
I pause for a moment, reluctant. I forgot to clear up after Charlie’s bath. I don’t want her seeing his bath toys, a reminder that I have a child and she does not. But I can’t think of a reasonable objection.
‘Sure,’ I say, pulling the door open. ‘It’s at the end of the corridor.’
I hear her feet padding down the corridor past Charlie’s room, then the bathroom door shutting behind her.
I stand and walk over to the window. On the street outside, I see suited commuters hurrying back from the Underground station, heads down, and I imagine them rushing back to their families. I feel a stab of jealousy and I fold my arms, comforting myself. Tonight I’ll be in this house on my own. No Richard. Just me and Charlie. Suddenly everything that’s happened today comes rushing back to me.
I think of our son in his bedroom alone, without Richard here to keep an eye on him. I must check on him.
The door to Charlie’s room creaks as it opens and I hold my breath, hoping it won’t wake him. He’s snuggled up, his little chest rising and falling under the duvet, his mop of dark curls resting against the pillow. His arms are wrapped round his cuddly penguin and his other soft toys line the bed behind him. He won’t part with them no matter how many times I suggest that he might have too many. I straighten the duvet around him and then turn to leave. My heart aches for him, as I think of the baby he was and the man he’ll become. I feel the weight of responsibility for him, my child. He looks so peaceful, unaware of what the future holds for him, unaware that tonight will be the first of many without his father.
I reach down and stroke his hair, then put my face in his curls. I didn’t have time to wash his hair tonight and there are still remnants of the earthy scent of the playground mixed with the fragrance of his bath wash. I try to imagine his day; lessons and chatter and games. Or being ignored in the playground. I just don’t know. Already he shares less than he once did with me. He’s not desperate to tell me what happened at school anymore, no longer dying for me to hear all about his day, instead just wanting to curl up in front of the TV when he gets home. I feel like I lose a little more of him each day. And as much as I want to hold him close and keep him as a baby forever, I know he needs to grow up, to find his independence without me. I imagine the future, ten years from now. Charlie a teenager and Richard gone. I feel an intense sense of loss and I hug Charlie close. Who will I be then?
‘I love you,’ I whisper to his sleeping form.
I stand to go, but I can’t take my eyes off my son. This moment seems so precious, and I want to cling to it, knowing it can’t possibly last forever.
A cat screeches outside the window and I turn.
There’s a shadow in the doorway, silently watching me.
Four
Danielle
I watch Beth with her son, see how difficult she finds it to leave him. I want all of that for me. I want to love a baby the way Beth clearly loves her child. I know I’m intruding on an intimate moment, but I can’t seem to pull away from the scene in front of me. Her son looks so small and fragile beneath the duvet.
It took a while to control my tears in the bathroom, surrounded by the evidence of Beth’s happy life with her son; a little green boat and a purple toy octopus by the side of the bath, the tiny red toothbrush sitting next to the adult one by the sink. It all seemed so unfair. That she should have what I so desperately want. And then, on the way back, I’d seen the door to this room ajar and I couldn’t help peering in.
Beth turns suddenly, her eyes widening as she sees me. She draws her hands into her body defensively and jumps back. She hadn’t realised I was here.
‘He’s beautiful,’ I say quickly.
‘They grow up too fast.’ She reaches down to straighten a soft toy on his bed and then turns to me and smiles. ‘How are you feeling? Ready to continue?’
Ten minutes later we’re finishing up, and Beth gets up to let me out. She puts her hand on my arm and looks me in the eye. ‘Thanks for coming today, and for sharing so much. The first session is always the hardest.’
I nod and draw away from her, exhausted by my whirring emotions. I never normally talk about how I feel and it’s drained my energy. ‘Thanks.’
‘I hope to see you next week.’
‘I’ll get Peter to come along next time.’
‘That would be helpful. But if he can’t come, I think you’ll find the sessions useful on your own.’
I smile. ‘I think so.’ A part of me is sad to leave, despite everything. There’s so much left to say.
‘Some of my clients find it useful to keep a diary when they start counselling. Tracking the highs and lows of their emotions can help to get to the bottom of what’s bothering them.’
I nod. ‘I can do that.’
We say goodbye at the door, and I step outside into the cold air, wrapping my scarf around me. When I get out my phone to order an Uber, I see a message from Peter.
I’ve got out of work earlier than I thought. I’ll pick you up. I’ll be outside in the car at 9pm.
Headlights flash across the street and I see him sitting behind the wheel of our car, his phone lighting up his face.
I climb in the passenger side and Peter leans over to kiss me. I turn my head away, my thoughts still spinning.
‘How did it go?’ he asks, as he starts the engine and pulls into the street.