The Stork Delivers Such Joy by Simon Steven

Only a month ago I was told how much I glowed. Glowed? Is the baby a thermonuclear device? Will my midwife melt from the radioactivity when the little angel is born and detonates? People say such silly things.

‘It’s carrying the three extra stones in weight that’s stretching my skin to a mirrored finish. That’s the glow you see. Want to see my ankles?’ People change their tune when the truth smashes them in the face like the monthly childcare bill.

It’s cold of me, allowing strangers to take care of a newborn baby while I trot off back to work. I should stay at home. The maternity pay is fine, but I’m not.

I only had two months to go. The spare room was painted half blue and half pink. That was my little touch at being neutral in a traditional sense. The buggy sat on standby, romper suits and bottles at the ready and stacks of different-sized nappies which never failed to make me smile smothered the baby changing station. Everything was looking good.

‘I can’t do this. I’m leaving.’

That’s all he said. Not even a warning. I could have refrained from screaming with some kind of warning. I would have controlled myself more and not trashed the spare room, that place that made me feel warm inside. And the neighbour that lives down the stairs wouldn’t have had to bring back the broken buggy.

‘I’ll pay you for a new door,’ I said.

‘Don’t be silly. It’s just a couple of scratches,’ she said.

Looking at the tiny fellow reminds me of the walking mistake. How can something so young and innocent be so deeply tarred by something else? At work, I can forget they both exist. I can crunch numbers and punch keys whilst swigging coffee down the phone at buyers from all over the world, the far corners of the earth, anywhere but here. Then I go home. I wait as long as I can before picking up my tiny boy. The nursery is only around the corner, so I walk extra slowly. I pray that he is asleep. At least one of us sleeps.

People talk about me. I hear the whispers.

‘Why the hell is she working seven days a week?’

I keep thinking. Would anyone miss him? His father wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. I replay what I want to do over and over in my mind. It was foggy to begin with but this last week the thoughts have focused. It’s the only thing to do. Next weekend, I’ll not go in to work. It’s better to get it over with. I’ll cancel the childcare. That’ll bring a tear to their eyes. And me and the little one can have one first weekend together, and one last weekend together.

Beige is a dreaded colour to some and a wonderful clear pallet to others. I’m in the latter camp flying my beige flag. The past four nights, I’ve covered the blue and pink neutrality with a cloak of paint that erases the fabric of time itself. He was never here. They were never here. One by one, the things I have prepared to make his tiny life the best I can dissolve away. They decay fast when love turns cold. I’ve been trying to avoid looking him in the eyes, even when he giggles. This is the only way I believe I can embrace absolute denial.

The weekend is here.

Time to go for that last walk together. I’ll carry him. We can walk across the park and watch the birds. Paraquets have made their home in our park now. It doesn’t seem right that such colour exists in England’s wintery-grey skies. The canal is where I want to walk. Only a hundred years ago they pulled boats with horses down there. Nowadays, they mostly pull bodies from the river weed.

I’m going to stop there.

All my thoughts blur back into fog. My legs are heavy yet my hands are light and finally …  empty.

I’m home.

I pour a glass of white wine and the missing weight returns in the guise of guilt. No matter how much I drink, it’ll only get heavier. The burden will sit on my shoulders for life, digging its claws into my skin, pulling my hair out with worry and reminding me I’m no better than the father. Maybe I’m not, but I do feel I am. I gave my tiny boy a life. It won’t be with me, but it will be with someone deserving. The adoption services will look after him like I never could. When we crossed the canal bridge that led to their office, I’m sure my boy giggled at the ducks gliding across the canal’s still water. I have that memory. That one’s mine. That’s the one I’ll keep forever.

I am trying to be positive. For a moment I was happy. I felt connected to the line of life that makes our world unique, and I’m confident that I can move forward. I don’t need help that states the obvious. I’m an adult and I can blend back into smiley-fake society just fine.

The second bottle of wine can wait. It looks corked like me. It’s bedtime anyway. I have to be up early tomorrow. I have work.

Simon Steven

Image by ErikaWittlieb from Pixabay – Nursery with pink and bluegrey walls and a cot and teddybears.