When my baby was 7 weeks old, I left her.
As I drove away from the house, knowing my tiny girl was peacefully sleeping under the watchful gaze of her loving father, I felt sick.
I’d spent nearly a week trying to think of a way I could avoid taking my baby to the police station to fill in paperwork after my car was hit while parked at the side of the road. I drove to a police station ten minutes away and buzzed the intercom. I was told I’d have to travel another fifteen minutes through heavy traffic to a bigger police station. I got cross and upset. “I have a newborn at home who will wake any minute,” I begged. The police officer wouldn’t budge. “I’m sorry, but you need to come in now to get this paperwork sorted,” I was told.
As I drove yet further from my girl, my milk-heavy breasts started to leak. As I sobbed irrational, uncontrollable tears, the milk coursed it’s way through my maternity pads and bra, flowing in a sticky river down my wobbly stomach. Every inch of me wanted to turn around, drive back home and be with my baby. I felt like I had lost an arm. Continue reading »