Free The Nanny by Tess Stimson

sorry for her.
    But I’ll never forgive her for what she’s done to Xan.
    No one who’s ever seen
Sophie’s Choice
could forget it. That harrowing moment on the railway platform at Auschwitz, when Sophie is forced by the Nazi
concentration camp commandant to choose life for one of her two small children, and death for the other.
    ‘Don’t make me choose,’ Sophie begs, clutching her children, ‘I
can’t
choose!’ But then, when a young Nazi is told to take them both to the death
camp, she releases her daughter, shouting, ‘Take my little girl!’ and has to watch helplessly as the screaming child is carried away to die.
    I was only nineteen or twenty when the film came out, motherhood a distant glimmer on the horizon, but the scene haunted my sleep for weeks. How could any mother choose between her two children?
How would the ensuing grief and guilt not drive you insane?
    Except . . . except that I
would
be able to choose.
    ‘Do you find Poppy . . . easier?’ I ask Marc tentatively one Monday morning.
    Marc finishes knotting his tie. ‘Rowan can’t help having colic. It’s not his fault.’
    ‘Oh, I know,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m not blaming him. Just, you know. Saying.’
    ‘He’s had a tougher start than Poppy. It’s bound to take him a while to settle down.’
    He’s four months old
, I think.
    Marc reaches for his jacket. ‘Look, it’d be nice if Rowan calmed down, sure, but he’ll grow out of it, the physician said so. Until then, we’ll manage.’ He smiles.
‘We’ve done OK so far, haven’t we?’
    No one knows what I nearly did that night. Sometimes, even I manage to forget. I tell myself I’d never
really
have pressed that cushion into Rowan’s face; that even if Marc
hadn’t come downstairs with Poppy – hiccuping and tearful, woken yet again by her brother’s screaming – I’d still have thrown the cushion aside and scooped him into my
arms and covered him with kisses, soothing his frantic cries like a good mother. It was just a moment of madness, that’s all. A split-second impulse.
    Yet I’m afraid to be alone again with my son. I adore him, but I’m terrified of what I might do, what I’m capable of. How do I know I won’t have that . . .
impulse
. . . again?
    I’ve read about baby blues, post-natal depression, sleep deprivation; I know what they can do to you. Of course I don’t really want to suffocate my baby! I love Rowan! I’d
never
want
to hurt him.
    But I can’t be trusted.
    Rowan doesn’t bother to cry as I reach into the pram for Poppy. He knows I won’t pick him up until his sister is fed.
    ‘It’s a shame you gave up breastfeeding with Rowan,’ Marc says as I settle into the rocking chair and unhook my nursing bra. ‘You never know, it might’ve
helped.’
    ‘He didn’t want me. He only liked his bottle.’
    ‘
You
only liked his bottle.’
    ‘Come on, Marc. You make it sound like I put him off on purpose.’ I swaddle Poppy more tightly in her blanket. ‘You know how much I like breastfeeding Poppy now. I tried my
best with Rowan, but he got too used to the bottle in hospital—’
    ‘Well, you’d have pulled the plug on it anyway, wouldn’t you?’
    ‘I haven’t pulled the plug with Poppy,’ I say, surprised by his tone. ‘And I express milk for Rowan every day—’
    Marc shuts the wardrobe door with a little more vigour than necessary. ‘I still don’t see why you had to rush back to work. You’re the boss, you set the rules. It’s not
like you don’t get paid if you’re not there. Anyone would think you didn’t
want
to spend time with your own children.’
    I stare at him. First the outburst at Davina’s, and now this. Marc used to be so supportive of my job! He knows how much it means to me; and we both need PetalPushers to do well if
we’re to pay our massive new mortgage. For years we’ve put in long hours building our respective careers, working weekends and evenings, rarely taking holidays, so we could get