Free Who Loves You Best by Tess Stimson

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 the following 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—hiccoughing 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, postnatal 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 breast-feeding 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 breast-feeding Poppy now. I tried my best with Rowan, but he got too used to the bottle in the 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. “I express milk for her every day—”
    Marc shuts the wardrobe door with a little more vigor 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. He knows how much my job means to me; and we both need PetalPushers to do well if we’re to pay our massivemortgage. For years we’ve put in long hours building our respective careers, working weekends and evenings, rarely taking holidays, so we could get to where we are now. It’s meant we’ve had less time together than we’d have liked, but we accepted it as the price we had to pay for our joint success. We discussed having a baby for years, planning when and how to organize it so that it didn’t disrupt our lives or impact us financially. So why is Marc suddenly coming over all Neanderthal on me?
    “Fine,” I say shortly. “Why don’t
you
stay home and look after them, and I’ll work? I’m talking twenty-four/seven care, Marc, not a cuddle for thirty minutes before bed when they’re all clean and sleepy, and a walk in the park for an hour or two at weekends. Let’s see how
you
like surviving on three hours’ sleep—”
    “You’re not the only one kept awake all night, Clare.”
    “I’m the only one