Rolling out of bed, baby in my arms, it’s 10am. 

We didn’t sleep, he knew that, and he left us in bed. 

The floor is swept, the bin is empty. 

I smile, those small things tell silently that he loves me. 

I put on my dressing gown. 

I know we will mostly be alone today, and while others find that notion worrying, I am quietly grateful. 

I’m making hot, strong coffee and she is in her chair. 

I take my vitamins and check on the weather, it’s raining, but I don’t mind. 

She quietly plays with the peanut butter lid and the contour set that I will never use. 

I’m putting down the toast, warming up her bottle and mentally running through my day.

I drag the high chair to the bathroom door to avoid screaming, and she happily watches me pee. 

I wash my hands and glance at my Fitbit for the time, looking up to see her grinning at me in the mirror. 

We eat our breakfast together. 

I sip my coffee, she plays with toys covered in margarine. 

A podcast plays in the background, the pans prepped with potatoes and veg for lunch bubble on low.  

We suit and boot and go for a walk. Humid, but enjoyable. 

She sleeps now and I put out lunch. 

He returns home and we talk genetics and history, fingers up bums. 

We laugh as we talk about the kids and their quirks. 

Hugs and a kiss.

1pm rolls around and he’s gone again. 

In the quiet I do my homework and sip more coffee. 

I piece together sentences about Swedish advertisements and hope they’re correct.

I peek through the window, she sleeps still.

I finish up my writing and sit in the silence, beautiful silence. 

Breathing in deep, I give quiet thanks for my new life.

Safe. Happy. Loved. 


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