The twins are finally asleep. Hannah and I are alone at the table, voices hushed. Exhausted. A thankful quiet peace. Our leftover Subways on proper plates rather than their wrappers, eaten in the silence. I move my foot to stroke hers.
‘I hate our life. I want out.’
My lip quivers.
Grabs her coat. Slams the door.
The wailing starts. Times two. Bewildered, I race up the back stairs.
I need to act calm. Like with dogs.
Feel warmth flooding my chest, I calm my babies.
Susan Hatters Friedman is a psychiatrist specialising in forensic psychiatry and maternal mental health. Her creative writing is also forthcoming in Eclectica, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and Drunk Monkeys.