The baby won’t stop crying. I feel her bloodcurdling screams somewhere behind my ribs. I scoop her up, out of her bassinet where she is red-faced and furious, her chubby little hands balled into fists.​

      ‘James,’ I shout. Surely he can hear Fern's desperate cries so why hasn’t he come up? He’s supposed to be watching her while I take a shower. I tamper down my rising frustration so Fern doesn’t pick up on it.​

      My auburn hair sticks to my bare shoulders in slimy tendrils. I didn’t have time to fully rinse out my conditioner before Fern started howling. I hopped out the shower so fast, I slid on the tiled floor and smacked my elbow on the sink. James, apparently, doesn’t have the same sense of urgency.

      I hold Fern close and whisper soft, reassuring noises into her fluffy strawberry blonde hair. God, I’m tired. I laugh out loud to no one because ‘tired’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s so much more than that. It’s the kind of bone deep exhaustion that separates you from reality, making you feel like a ghost drifting through the days of your life.  

     Fern’s crying becomes ferocious howls of anguish. ‘James!’ I call again but the word melts into a sob.

      Having fed Fern less than half an hour ago, I know she can’t possibly be hungry. She can’t. I burp her and fuss her and finally I give in, marching over to the nightstand and pulling from it the contraband dummy. James’s mother is dead-set against them, ‘Oh, Zara,’ she’d chided, ‘dummies are for weak-willed parents who aren’t interested in properly soothing their own children.’

      I defiantly pop it in Fern’s mouth, and she immediately quiets. I close my eyes, relief sweeping through me. Finally able to hear my own thoughts, I feel sanity returning. Fern’s baby blues gaze up at me with innocent, wide-eyed love. I feel a deep, nourishing pleasure at being needed. In the same breath, I feel trapped by it, too.

     I wanted this. I wanted her. For the longest time, my worst fear was not being able to have a baby. I should be grateful. Should count my lucky stars that I have exactly what I always wished for. Just five years ago, my life was unrecognisable. I was living alone in a little studio flat, the person I loved most in the world on trial for murder as the media watched on in morbid fascination.

     I can still feel Ivy’s catlike gaze fixed on my face. Can feel the magnetic pull. The urge to find her eyes and in them a question, a game, a poison spell: How much do you love me?  

     Fern drifts off in my arms. Carefully, with anxiety churning in my stomach, I lower her back into the bassinet. Then I pad downstairs to find James.

     He’s sitting at the breakfast table, scrolling through his phone. The evidence of his carefree morning is strewn across the table: a crumb-littered plate, an empty coffee cup, the paperback he’d been reading lying face-down. I can’t remember the last time I ate a full meal or finished a hot drink or read a book.         

     The resentment that burns in my chest isn’t new. It’s one year and one month old, to be exact. It arrived along with Fern. My love for her was instant. It felt ancient and fresh. Terrifying and exactly right. My resentment towards my fiancé grew over time, winding through our lives like an invasive vine.

     It's Saturday, and I know he's had a long week at work, but he gets to spend his time with adults, progressing his career. I loved being a wedding planner. I'd even started my own business which was pretty successful but it didn't pay as much as James's job in the bank. Now Fern is one, I'm hoping to return to work, if only to claw back some of myself, but I feel guilty for leaving her when James and I can afford for me to stay at home with her a while longer. 

     James is still scrolling through his phone, I take a breath and force myself to smile so the words that leave my mouth won’t sound as acidic as they taste. ‘Did you not hear Fern screaming? I thought you were watching her?’

     He glances up. Then back down at his screen. ‘She was asleep,’ he offers, distracted.

     ‘Well, she woke up when I was in the shower. Why didn't you come up?’ I stare at him, the impotent rage building and building. We’ve talked about this. Talked about how he can’t just disappear when he thinks the baby is sleeping and it’s his turn to watch her. He says I’m overprotective. That I’m too anxious, but maybe I’d stop being so anxious if I felt I could trust him to look after our baby. I gave birth to one child and yet it feels like I have two. I take a breath, deeper this time.

      ‘I thought you were out of the shower.’

     And in the face of his disinterest, something inside me breaks. Tears sting my eyes. I can’t move from my place in the doorway where I’m dripping water onto the wooden floor. James, sensing me still here, finally sets his phone down and looks at me. His face creases in concern. ‘Zara, what’s wrong?’

      He comes to me, pulling me against him even though my wet body soaks his clean shirt. ‘I’m tired,' I say weakly. 'I just wanted a shower.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I got caught up in work emails. I’m sorry.’ He kisses the top of my head. ‘I’m sorry, Zara.’

      This is something I love about James, he knows when to apologise. OK, so I’d prefer he didn’t have anything to apologise for, but he does admit when he’s wrong. That’s something Ivy could never do. In the five years since her trial, I was bombarded with letters and emails and gifts. Not once did she apologise for what she did. Not once did she say that she was sorry.

     ‘Look,’ he says, placing his hands on my shoulders and pulling back so he can see my face. ‘Why don’t you grab a shower, and I will bring Fern down here with me? I’ll make you some breakfast.’

     I sag in relief. ‘Thank you.’

     Ivy wouldn’t thank him. She’d roll her eyes and say, ‘Really? You’re thanking your fiancé for letting you fulfil a basic human right? He’s looking after his own child, for fuck’s sake, not curing cancer.’

     Once I’m showered, I take my time getting ready, slipping into the teal wrap dress Mum bought me for my birthday. ‘Teal is a lovely shade on you,’ she’d told me. ‘You know, teal is a lovely colour for bridesmaid’s dresses.’

     I twist the diamond ring on my finger. Once upon a time, the order in which things were done – meet, marriage, babies – was everything to me. But I gave my heart to the wrong men and learnt it isn’t the order in which you do things that matters, but rather who you do them with.

     Downstairs, James presents me with a bacon roll. The bacon is burnt, and the roll isn’t buttered but I’m grateful anyway. I know first-hand there are worse things a man can do to you than give you a subpar breakfast offering.

     I remind myself James is a good person. That he loves me. That things will get easier once we find our rhythm. We’re still new parents. It’s only been a year. He brings me the post and a hot tea. I riffle through the stack of letters. Past bills and bank statements until. . .

     They slip from my fingers when I see it.

     James doesn’t notice. He’s in the lounge on his phone, Fern asleep in the crook of his arm. I pick up the letter, heart pounding. It’s her handwriting. It’s Ivy’s handwriting. I see my name but no address which means it was hand delivered. Ivy is back in Bath. Last I heard, she and her mother were in Italy.

I go from hot to cold and back again. The world tilts off its axis. She hasn’t reached out to me in almost two years. For a second, I consider tearing it up without reading it. All the letters that came before, drawn out explanations, pages upon pages of her pain and her gratitude, her selfish desire to have me back in her life even though I’d made myself clear, were emotionally draining to read.

     I saved her. I lied for her. I told the world she was innocent. That she killed Henry, my ex-fiancé, not in malice but in self-defence. And that was my parting gift. As much as I loved her, I couldn’t be around her anymore. It was too much. And I was afraid that whenever I looked at her, I would see Henry’s bulging eyes and cracked skull. That being around her meant being trapped in the events of that awful night. Many would argue that he deserved what Ivy did to him. Maybe they’re right. But I wanted no part in any of it, not him, not her. I needed to know who I was without Ivy.

     I thought I knew. Until I became a mother. And I lost myself again.

     I open the letter.

     It is one word. A word in which I have waited five years.

     Sorry.   

 

That night, I lie awake in bed next to my sleeping fiancé. Everything is still. Everything but my racing heart. With each beat, I hear her name: Ivy. Ivy. Ivy.

     I can still smell her wild bluebell perfume. Can still feel the silky softness of her inky hair against my cheek and the warmth of her lips against my ear as she whispered, ‘How much do you love me?’

     I never did tell her. But maybe when I lied for her, she finally understood: I loved her with a visceral certainty in which I had never loved anyone else.

     In the dark, I find myself reaching for James. My hands paw at his skin. He wakes, groggy at first and then he feels me arching against him. For the first time in weeks, I am the one seducing him. I kiss him, plunging my tongue into his mouth. He groans into me and I feel electric. He tries to manoeuvre himself on top but I grip his bicep and shake my head. ‘Let me.’

     Then I am straddling him. I sink down onto him. I set the rhythm. Deeper. Slower. My breath comes harder and faster. I think of Ivy. Of her skin beneath mine. Her back arching. The long column of her throat. I try to hold onto her, but she’s swept away on the back of my orgasm.

     The next morning, while James is at work, I fire off an email to Ivy. And I wait. Fern, picking up on the tension, is fussy and unsettled. I check my phone and check my phone and check my –

     A reply.

     Where? When?

​

I wait for Ivy at the park around the corner from my house. Spring is sliding swiftly into summer. The air is warm, and I breathe in the smell of sunscreen and freshly cut grass. Fern sleeps in her stroller, adorable in a little yellow sun dress and matching hat. I smooth my shaking hands over the dark green skirt of my dress. When I left the house, my neighbour Hallie, said, ‘Gosh, Zara. You look lovely.’

     I wanted to say something about finally feeling like myself. That the thought of seeing Ivy again was like a hammer to a shell. That one well-aimed crack has set me free. And for the first time in years, I can feel the sun on my skin. That today, when Fern screamed, I didn’t feel like screaming, too. I felt capable. More capable than I have since she was born. Instead, I said, ‘Thank you.’

     Now, I wait for Ivy. I think of all the things I will say to her. Maybe something witty and cutting, ‘It took you five years to learn how to spell ‘Sorry’? I thought you were privately educated.’ But then, wit was always her strong point. Perhaps I will say something meaningful, ‘You were brave enough to save us both.’ Or something honest, ‘Without you, I’ve felt as though I am a shadow in my own life.’

     The park is bustling with parents chatting and children playing, with dogs chasing sticks and cyclists cutting through to get to the other side of town. My heart races so hard I feel sick. 

     Then, through all the noise and the people, I feel her. Feel Ivy’s eyes on me. I look up. She is walking towards me. Her long, inky hair streams past her shoulders. Beneath the golden glow of the sun, it reminds me of a raven’s wing. Her slim, petite frame weaves deftly through the crowd. Her gaze does not leave mine.

     I push to my feet.

     She stops in front of me.

     And I find I can’t say anything at all. My body feels too small for the enormous swell of feeling. Her cheeks flush with quiet exhilaration. Then she glances down, her attention grabbed by Fern. I hold my breath. Ivy was never fond of children. Was never fond of a paint by numbers life. It’s the kind of life that couldn’t contain her.

      She looks at me, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes sparkling. She’s happy for me. Genuinely happy. Her face lights up with a question and I understand immediately.

     I nod, giving her permission.

     Ivy reaches inside the stroller and gently lifts Fern out of it. I know her hands have taken a life - a violent man - but I know in my marrow that she would never hurt me. Never hurt my daughter. And in this moment, all the reasons in which I’ve ignored Ivy these past few years dissolve inside of a truth: if Ivy hadn’t done what she did, Fern wouldn’t exist. Henry would never have let me go. Because of Ivy, I escaped. I met James, and I had the chance to become a mother. 

     I still have nightmares of Henry and the night he died. Now, they are reimaginings. In them, it is me who caves in his head. I wake, frustrated with myself for not being braver. Frustrated I couldn't see Henry for who he really was. Frustrated with Ivy for doing what I could not. But then, that’s why she did it, isn't it? So I didn’t have to. Maybe that’s the most selfless thing Ivy has ever done.

     She holds my baby, staring down at her with so much love. Fern beams at Ivy in wide-eyed adoration. Seeing them together, being with Ivy again, makes the world blur behind a wash of joyful tears. I tilt my face to the sun, blinking them away. 

     We sit down on the bench, side by side, our arms touching. Ivy turns to me then, and I see in her eyes, not a question, not a game, not a poison spell, but a statement: I love you.

      Me too, I tell her silently. To death. And even after.