CHAPTER 9
And then, it had been a year. There had been no more police visits but there was no full belly either, no glowing skin, no thicker hair, no crib in Mum’s old room, which was earmarked as the nursery. Jameson had officially moved in, but his presence didn’t change anything other than the tension in the place. I heard urgent whispers and quiet anxiety through the walls. I wore headphones and listened to music to fall asleep, the curly black cord that plugged into my stereo invariably tangled around my arm when I woke a deep purple mark left on my skin.
In the mornings, I would lie awake and stare for a few moments at an old framed picture across from my bed. It was an embroidered portrait of Saint Margaret that had hung in my room since childhood. I had loved the picture always,
