Things you can’t un-see


In my 17th hour of labour, the gas had taken the edge off the contractions just enough for me to get ranty and philosophical. In other words, off my face.

I lifted my head off the student midwife’s shoulder to make out my husband’s distorted silhouette. Hours of weeping had pixelated everyone in the room, making them look like anonymous eye-witnesses from Crime Stoppers.

Choking on mucous and tears, I turned to him.

“If you saw this image when we met 13 years ago, would’ve you still gone through with it all?”.

Perhaps that question was better saved for five and a half months later, this morning, when out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw me squeezing milk from my boob into a bowl of puréed broccoli.

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