All the Little Things by Sarah Lawton (the best books to read txt) 📕

small miracle women perform every day. I searched her face for Ciaran’s, but I never saw him. Not on her face.

It did get easier, I suppose. She was difficult those first few months, screaming for hours on end while I rocked her and shushed her, fed her biting mouth, frantic that she might be ill, that I was failing again. It took Mum storming in one night, knackered from the screeching echoing around the house (‘For goodness’ sake, give her here’) and taking her away from me, just plonking her in her crib, holding me back while she screamed in a back-arching, kicking temper until finally she just settled, fist in her mouth, gumming it angrily, panting. Then she slept.

(‘Some babies just don’t want to be held.’)

After that, she was an easy baby and toddler. Self-contained, content to play by herself for hours. I was so happy and proud to have such a perfect little girl, it was such a relief after the traumatic years of my relationship with Ciaran, the pregnancy, birth. She healed me. I finally fell in love with her, felt the tendrils of that all-encompassing adoration I’d been told was mine by right.

It wasn’t until she went to nursery that the problems started to occur.

There was an incident with a little boy. They’d had a childish falling out over a toy and both been ticked off. Later on, Vivian had gone over to him while they were all supposed to be having a nap, taken off her pants and deliberately urinated on him. A nursery worker had seen her do it, and she’d laughed it off, so I told myself it was meaningless. I carried that conviction for years. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s her own person. There’s not a problem.

All the niggling issues at school that I was called in for, I dismissed as nothing. I ignored it all. And I knew that if I ever told anyone about how I had felt about her those first years, they would think I was a terrible mother, an awful person. Who doesn’t love their baby? They would blame me. And at least I loved her now, I told myself again. I was fixing things, making them right.

I rubbed my face, trying to dispel the crowding thoughts as I went out into the garden, and then almost screamed as someone came at me from my studio – Alex, again. Cross at him for frightening me, full of painful recollections, I was harsh.

‘Alex! Do you not remember me specifically asking you to text me if you wanted a lesson? I don’t want you creeping around in my garden when I’m not here!’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want a lesson, I just wanted to pick up my picture. I was going to work on it at home, I just thought maybe you were out here.’

‘Well, I wasn’t!’

‘I can see that. I’m really sorry,’ and he turned sharply and left, leaving me feeling even worse than before for shouting at him when he hadn’t actually done anything wrong, except look for me where I’d told him I could usually be found.

I spent the rest of the afternoon indoors, watching rubbish on TV and playing stupid games on my phone. I didn’t have the energy for anything else.

‘Prosecco’s on me tonight, my darling. I fancied a change,’ said Steve, popping the cork with an efficiency born of many years’ practice. I watched the liquid bubble and froth in the tall glasses. We raised them silently, clinking them together, our thoughts a few houses away, where the oppressive sadness of the shut and silent chip shop pervaded the little high road like the weather, heavy, smothering. Even sitting as motionless as possible I could feel sweat tickling my hairline and pooling beneath my breasts.

‘Do you know it’s cooler in Barcelona than it is here?’ said Steve, taking a long sip of his drink. He paused, waiting for the inevitable burp from the fizz. ‘It looks like this weather is in for the long haul. The green will be a brown by the time I get back. Everything is baking to death.’

‘What do you mean, “get back”? Where are you going?’

‘I got a last-minute deal on a trip to Gran Can, darling. I’m going with Bill.’

‘Bill? Bill “onions” Bill, who is about seventy, Bill?’

‘Yes, what of it? I’d rather be going with you, boring only-going-to-Dorset-this-year girl.’ He picked up his drink and stared into it. ‘To be honest, we were chatting in the bar about everything, and both of us wanted to get away for a while.’

‘Oh god, Steve! You’ll give him a heart attack!’

‘Rubbish! We’ll have an amazing time. We’re only going for a week, anyway. I’m assuming you can keep yourself alive for that long without me?’

‘I guess I’ll have to! I can’t believe you’re deserting me though…’

Steve gave me a sly look. ‘Well, I’m sure your boy-toy will keep you occupied!’

I didn’t even grace that with an answer. He just laughed.

‘When are you going?’

‘First thing tomorrow. Can’t wait. You’ll have to come next time – you can ditch Vivian with Abi and Gavin for a change. It’s about time you gave the poor girl some space.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Over-protective mother, can’t help it.’ That again. I forced a smile and sipped my drink, trying not to wince at the taste, acid on my tongue.

We spent the rest of the evening like we usually did, chatting about anything and everything, the easy and comforting company I’d come to take for granted.

If I’d known it would be the last time I would ever see him, I would never have let him go.

Vivian

When I get home from school I go straight to my room and I lie on the bed. The window is open, but it just lets in more heat. It presses down on me, as heavy as sand, burying me alive. I let my mother bury me on the beach once; it was supposed to be fun but I