Last night she got to the bottom of something she did not know had been bothering her; and that can be better than sleep. She stayed up till three googling postpartum depression, ultimately ordering a book on the subject. Knowledge is power. The more she understands about her mother’s traumatic history and its effect on her own mothering, the better off her children will be. And it is nice to know that the coffee in her mug is completely decalcified. She rubs her arm and places a bowl of porridge in front of Maggie in her high chair and one for Matthew on his booster seat. “Matthew, it was so kind of you to lend Maggie your unicorn last night.” She will send flowers to Hil for real—freesia? Something that says “I’m sorry” without saying “I’m only sending you these because I’m sorry.” Daisies? “I didn’t lend it.” He is gazing up at her steadily. “You didn’t?” How, then, did Maggie get hold of it? There is something uncanny in the question, evoking as it does the spectre of a demonically nimble toddler, dropping to the floor, padding across the hallway … “I gave it,”
