text: I swallowed both pills with a glass of water and sat the little brown container on my dresser. I’d had no reason to wonder over to this part of the bedroom in quite some time and the dust had already began to settle on the tops of my make-up containers and lipstick lids. Today was better, I was able to get out of bed and I even had an appetite for breakfast. Good thing too, the doctor had told me only to take the antidepressants with a good meal. I didn’t deserve to be on antidepressants. I didn’t deserve to be depressed. I scrambled some eggs along with a small pot of oats. I wasn’t used to cooking breakfast for one and threw half of the oats away. My husband had moved out into a bed & breakfast a few days ago. We’d never had an argument in our 12 years together, nothing serious anyway, yet now we couldn’t be in the same room as each other. It would always start the same way. Each of us staring into space, praying not to catch the others’ eye. One of us trying to start a light hearted conversation or questioning the silence we’d created, moments later we’d be screaming hatred towards each other, locking ourselves in separate rooms and falling deeper into the silence. How suddenly things can change at yet how slow time seems to move after they do. The last 2 months seemed like they’d lasted an eternity and yet the last 12 years had passed by, leaving only the sourest and most heartbreaking memories behind. Every photo, every gift, every item bought together, even the cracks in the walls and the creases in the sofa brought memories that would split my chest open and fill it knives. My lungs felt like they were made of glass, cracking and breaking with every breath I took. Daily tasks were near impossible and hope was a distant treasure, like an exquisite meal once eaten who’s flavour I had no recollection of. I carried the overflowing laundry basket upstairs and sat it beside the washing machine. Perhaps this is what recovery would look like. Perhaps I would never be myself again but instead dusted off, polished, a big smile painted on my face and I’d be placed on display like a ceramic doll. Hollow from within, brittle to the touch but presentable enough as to not disturb anyone looking from the outside. I kneeled beside the washing machine and one-by-one placed each item of clothing into it. Even the smallest tasks now needed to be broken down into even smaller morsels that I could manage. A sock caught itself on the lip of the machine so I prized it free with my thumb while my other hand reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a soft, fuzzy, little sweater. I stopped at once, my body became numb and cold as tears welled up in my eyes and I let out a whimper. I turned to look at it and held it in both hands. Tears distorted my focus on the sweater but its baby blue colour was clear as day, the bright purple sequences on its chest dazzled up at me. I could almost see her, looking up at me again. “Mum, mum! Please can I have this sweater. I love it I love it I love it please!” “Ok ok only if you help me put the shopping away once we get home” “oh yes! I love you mum, I can’t wait to wear this to school \*gasp\* and my birthday! It’s ok mum, this can be my birthday present. Thank you!” I hugged the sweater tight against my chest and breathed in the sweet aroma of my baby. I cried into it, visualising her holding me. “It’s ok mummy” I could hear her say “It’s ok, don’t cry. It doesn’t hurt anymore”. I let out a wail, I could feel my tears soaking the sweater but I couldn’t stop. I was no longer in my body, I was no longer anywhere but in my child's arms. My child, my only child. She was mine and nobody else’s, not even God’s. I carried her, she was a part of me. I alone endured the pain from her birth. That was the deal and that made her mine. I raised her, worried for her, disciplined her, taught her right from wrong, nurtured her mind, supported her. I lay awake every night when she screamed in agony from the therapy, I timed her hourly medication, I hunted down every cancer expert in the world, worked overtime for her private treatment. I smiled as she lay, dying in my arms, telling her “mummy is here... everything is ok”- I buried her. I cried till my eyes were dry and burning red. I lowered the sweater away from my face, it sat heavy in my hands carrying my tears and mucous. I felt a small hand, her hand, press gently on my shoulder. I turned to see nobody there. But across the hall, her bedroom door lay ajar, swaying gently with the draft passing out of her room. I carried the sweater with me as I entered her room and moved over to close the window when I saw my husband walking down the driveway, flowers in his hand. It had felt like a lifetime since I last saw him. For once I saw him not as my husband but as a complete stranger. I saw his innocence, his vulnerability. I saw the bags under his sunken eyes and the roughness of his hair. Yet he was familiar and beautiful for it. In every way the handsome, charming man I’d chosen to spend my life with. Long before she came into the world and so it should be, long after she left it. In that moment I knew that there was only one person who loved her as I did, and that was him. I walked down the stairs and opened the front door to find him standing there. His eyes were red and glistened with tears. He looked down at the sweater in my hands, then up at me. “I can’t do this alone” his lip quivered as he spoke. I stepped forward and hugged him as tight as I could. The sweater sandwiched between us and her aroma filled the air around us. “Then let's do it together” I whispered into his ear.