Free A Mother's Story by Rosie Batty

his share house and places a large, black-handled knife into his bag. He sets off, bound for Tyabb. It’s a journey he has made many times before. The route, the modes of transport, the semi-rural Mornington Peninsula landscape through which he travels that afternoon are all familiar to him. He would have boarded the Frankston-Tyabb bus shuttle, paid his fare and taken a seat. There would have been nothing unusual about his appearance. Just a man with a backpack going about his business on a summer’s day in Frankston.
    Sometime around 2.30 pm, the bus would have dropped Greg near the train station in Tyabb. He would have been oblivious to the locals scurrying about their business – heading off to collect children from school, preparing to drop them at after-school sporting activities, popping in to the local IGA for last-minute dinner supplies.
    He would have walked past the tiny strip of shops that serves as Tyabb’s town centre – past the pizza restaurant, past the little cafe.His destination is little more than a half a kilometre away: Bunguyan Reserve, home of the Tyabb Cricket Club and the Tyabb Yabbies junior AFL club.
    He would have arrived at the oval long before any of the parents or children started to trickle in for cricket practice. He may have taken shelter from the afternoon sun under the aluiminum awning of the cricket club; he may have waited in the shade of the trees that encircle the oval. It’s the second-last training session for the year. Only Greg knows what he is thinking. Only Greg can attest to his state of mind that afternoon.
    I choose not to think about him, full stop. I choose not to reflect on what went through his mind when he saw my car pull up, when he saw Luke bundle out of the car and hurry over to his team to join in the training. Was it excitement at seeing his son? Was it a feeling of foreboding, knowing what he was about to do? He was Luke’s father. No one loved Luke more than Greg or I did. What does a father think about in the hour leading up to murdering his own son?

8
A New Life
    I thoroughly enjoyed being pregnant. There is a shine and radiance to a pregnant woman that everyone seems to notice and revel in. And I loved the attention. Then there’s the not insignificant excitement of beginning to plan for a new life.
    I felt really healthy. I had next to no morning sickness, ate a lot and put on weight. I was careful to exercise as much as possible, but as I lived by myself on a large, hilly property with three dogs and two goats, I didn’t have much of a choice when it came to staying active. I was still working full-time, but I felt really invigorated by my pregnancy and, perhaps mindful that this was going to be the only time I would experience being pregnant, I resolved to savour it all as much as I could.
    It had been so exciting to go to the six-week scan and see a tiny human being moving around inside me. I looked enraptured at the ultrasound monitor, hardly believing that a little person was taking shape inside me and, at the end, I was going to end up with a baby in my arms. My baby.
    When it came to finding out the sex, I wanted to know simply because I could. I had been secretly hoping I was carrying a little girl. Coming as I had from a house full of brothers, and never really enjoying a close relationship with a mother figure of my own, I hankered after a little girl. With my being a single parent, I figured, the chances of a daughter looking after me in my dotage and being a lifelong friend and companion were going to be manifestly greater than if I had a son.
    But the doctor soon set me straight. I was carrying a little boy. And I couldn’t have been happier. I immediately started thinking about names. I liked all the Old Testament names. There was something solid and classic about them. Matthew was a name I especially liked, along with Trent, after the river next to which I had been raised. Particularly important was that I