If I just carry on maybe she’ll stay asleep. I don’t think it’s sleep like adults sleep. It’s a furious pause. Fists screwed up. Angry nasty little face wrinkled. Horrible bent knees and long feet curled against the cradle in these nappies I can’t get right. The pin is blunt and I keep forcing it through the damn nappy and then pricking her. I can see clearly, then I can’t. I can feel calm, then I can’t. I am worried I will hurt her. I don’t think she’d notice, that’s what I tell myself. She is so tiny, so cross and small, she doesn’t open her eyes except to stare, not focusing on anything. I don’t want her to love me, I never did this for that. I could have got rid of her. I just wish she’d look at me. Sometimes when I’ve tried to feed her and I can’t, and I’ve given her some other milk and she won’t drink it, I lie in bed crying very quietly so they won’t hear, and she cries and cries too. She falls asleep eventually and I stare at her, small and red, splayed across my tummy.
