I still remember those early mornings in the cramped flat on Bethnal Green Road, the way the rain would tap against the windows and the kettle would whine on the stove while the world outside snarled in its endless traffic. My husband, Michael Clarke, would lean back in his chair, a halfsmile on his face, and say, What, you think I was lying to you? I told you I dont care for children!
I sobbed, Michael, how can you say you dont love your own son? Hes our future, our blood. You never even call him by his name What is this that one you keep speaking about?
Our oneyearold Jack, his cheeks smeared with oat porridge, let a rattle tumble from his tiny hands. For a heartbeat the baby froze, inhaled a lungfull of air and let out such a highpitched wail that my ears rang like a siren. I rushed to the low stool, scooped him up, and glanced at Michael.
He continued his breakfast without a flicker of concern.
Little ones fallen, I cooed, trying to keep my voice calm. Dad will lift him up. Michael, could you hand me the blanket? Its slipped down to his feet.
Michael glanced down. A yellow plastic giraffe lay a centimetre from his shoe, tucked into a houseslip. He nudged it aside with his toe, spread butter on a slice of toast, and said nothing.
Michael! I snapped. Why are you kicking it? Is it hard for you to bend?
He rose without a word, pressed the button on the coffee machine, waited for the black stream to fill the mug, then turned to me. Im running late, Emma. I have a meeting in forty minutes and I havent even had breakfast yet.
The morning was a jam of horns and hurryups. Take the rattle yourself! I dont want to get near the babymy shirts light, I cant have him staining it.
What does your shirt have to do with it? I retorted. The child wails and you act as if it doesnt matter
He wails twentyfour hours a day, Michael replied placidly. Its his way of keeping me on my nerves. Fine, Im off. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and slipped past Jacks sticky hands.
Papa! Jack babbled, his toothless grin stretching wide. Michael barely glanced at him.
Goodbye, he muttered, and bolted out of the kitchen. A few minutes later the front door slammed, I dropped onto a chair and let my sobs fill the room. Why was he so cruel? What had I done? What sin had our son committed against his father?
Jack, sensing my mood, fell silent and began smearing the last of his porridge across the table. I fought through my tears, trying to steady myself. I couldnt let my son see me break.
A memory of Michaels words after our wedding flashed in my mind: Emma, to be honest, I dont like children. Any children. The noise, the mess, the endless whining why should we have them? Lets just stay childfree. I had laughed it off then, waving my hand. Oh, Michael, all men say that until they hold a baby. Instinct will kick inyoull see.
His instinct never woke. He truly detested his own son.
By noon my parents arrived. My mother, Mrs. Graham, swept into the flat first, followed by my father, John Graham, lugging a box of new building blocks.
Wheres our little king? Wheres our future headmaster? John boomed as he entered. Come on, give him a hug!
Jack squealed with delight, and for the next two hours the house was a picture of domestic bliss. I finally managed to sit on the sofa with a cup of tea, watching my father build towers while my mother fed Jack apple purée, singing silly rhymes.
Emma, you look pale, my mother remarked. Did Michael turn up late again yesterday?
No, he was on time, I replied, averting my gaze. Just tired.
Mrs. Graham pursed her lips. Shed seen everything. Shed noticed the complete lack of family photos with the child, except for that one of Michael looking as if hed been taken hostage at the hospital. She knew my husband never asked about Jacks teeth or vaccinationshe never showed any fatherly interest. I had complained about this more than once.
Does he ever try to be with him? my father asked quietly.
Dont start, John. He works, hes exhausted.
Work! John snorted. I toiled at two jobs when you and your brother were lads. Yet you wont even go near his cot? I kept night watches so Mother could sleep! And you youre just a he stopped, spitting the word.
John, hush, my mother interjected sharply. Emma, perhaps you should talk to him? Hes growing, he needs a fathers example.
Ive told you a hundred times, I whispered, wrapping my arms around myself. Shame flooded me, not only for my husband but for the fact that Id chosen such a poor father for my son.
What does he say? my mother pressed.
Let him grow. When hes a man we can talk. Until then, hes my responsibility.
Only yours? she shouted, even dropping the dish towel. Did you both conceive him, or was it some kind of accident? He had no say in the matter!
That evening, after my parents left, my mood sank again. Michael would soon be home, the dinner needed preparing, the toys had to be cleared away so he wouldnt step on them and start screaming.
Michael returned at eight oclock.
Hey, he tossed his keys into the bowl. Anything to eat? Im starved.
Meatloaf in the oven, salad on the table, I called from the hallway, wiping my hands. Jack said two new words today: baba and pay.
Lovely, he replied, shrugging off his coat. Hope pay isnt about my wages. Im already spending most of it on that. He laughed at his own joke and drifted to the bedroom to change. I stood frozen.
It wasnt just rudeness; it was sheer indifference to our only heir. Whether he said a word or barked, the reaction would have been the same.
Jacks teeth were throbbing. He whined from the moment he woke, and the whole household lost sleep. I held him, rubbed his gums with soothing gel, turned on cartoonsnothing helped.
Michael had a day off. He sat in the living room with his laptop, trying to watch a series with headphones, but the babys cries pierced even the noisecancelling. Around two oclock I put Jack down for his midday nap, my only chance to catch a breath, shower, and sit in silence.
Jack fought. He arched his back, flung his pacifier, and shrieked until the chandelier vibrated. The bedroom door burst openMichael stood there, hair wild.
Emma, how long can you stand this? he roared. Ive heard this wail for four hours! My head is splitting!
Jack, terrified by the shouting, went into a hysterical fit, and I snapped.
Do you think I enjoy this? He has teeth! Hes in pain!
Do something! Shut him up! Give him medicine!
I gave it! He just needs to sleep!
Michael stalked into the room and hovered over me.
Listen, stop torturing him. If he wont sleep, dont force it. Let him crawl, scream in the other room. Put him in the kitchen and shut the door!
Youre out of your mind? I stammered. Hes only a year old! He cant go without a nap.
If he doesnt nap now, the evening will be a nightmare. Neither of our nerves will survive.
I dont give a toss about his nervous system! Skip the nap and hell crash early tonight. Logical, isnt it?
I was fed up with his whining. I want peace at home, you hear me? Im done with this rubbish!
Peace? he sneered. Youre a heroinemum, all the rest give birth and raise children, and youre the most miserable of us all.
Put him on the floor, let him play. You go and cook whatever you need entertain yourself.
Do you even understand what youre saying? My voice trembled. Hes your son. Hes hurting, his teeth are coming in. You suggest depriving him of sleep so you can watch your silly drama?
Im offering a solution! Michael shouted. If he wont sleep, dont make him!
Jack wailed again, burying his face in my chest. I looked at Michael with pure disgust.
Leave, I whispered.
What? he asked, confused.
Get out of the room. And shut the door.
He lingered a moment, snorted, and then slammed the door shut. After twenty minutes Jack, exhausted, finally drifted off, breathing shallowly in his sleep.
I slipped into the kitchen. Michael was at the table, eating a sandwich and scrolling through his phone.
I called your mother yesterday, I said, leaning against the wall.
He tensed, putting his phone down. Why?
I wanted to know whats going on between us. I asked how you were raised, how your parents treated you.
She told me his father never let him off his hands, took him fishing from age three, read him stories. You grew up in love, Michael. Where did this come from?
He turned slowly. If I complain to my mother again, well have a serious row.
I wasnt complaining. I was asking for advice.
Advice? he laughed. Do you know what she said? That Im a coldhearted bastard, that Ill ruin the family.
Youve turned me into a monster, Emma. Congratulations! Is that what you wanted?
Are you a monster? I asked quietly. Look at yourself. You live with us like a neighbour in a council flat. Youve never called our son by name in a week. He, that little one, this. Do you hate him?
He stayed silent.
I dont hate him, he finally muttered. I just I dont know what to do with him.
He screamed, he smelled, he demanded, demanded, demanded! I come home to a mess, want quiet, want a film with you. Instead there are diapers, toys underfoot, and your forever sour face.
Its only temporary, Michael. Children grow
They grow too long, Emma. I warned you, honestly: I dont love children. Did you think I was joking? That your great love would change me?
I thought you were an adult. That I dont love children and I dont love my child were different things.
It turned out theyre the same, he said, standing, tossing the halfeaten sandwich into the bin. Im going for a walk. Need some fresh air.
Go, I said, turning to the sink. Go. Were not going to get used to Jack that easily.
He gathered his coat and left, while I dialed my parents, desperate for a solution.
That evening Jack woke in a bright mood. The toothache had eased; he toddled across the carpet, trying to catch the cat that hid beneath the sofa. Michael returned two hours later. I gave him no reaction. He flopped into his armchair, reached for the remote.
Jack saw his father, grinned, wobbled over, clung to Michaels trouser leg, and pressed a toy car into his hand.
I froze, breath caught, watching Michaels fleeting glance at his son. He grimaced and said to me, Put him away. I want to watch TV in peace! Why is he clinging to me? Go bother mum!
I gathered Jack and carried him to the bedroom. An hour later I hauled out two massive suitcases. Michael barely had time to react before the doorbell rang. My parents had turned up, demanding to see me and my grandson.
My motherinlaw had been urging me to return for months, but Id never budged. After we moved, I filed for divorce within days; I wasnt going back to live with Michael. He suddenly came to his senses, tried to arrange meetings with me and Jack, but I decided everything would go through the courts.
Jack will be raised by my fathermy own dad, a proper English gentleman in every sense.
