“No further questions, Your Honour,” the defence barrister says, giving up.
It’s childish, I know, but when I step down, as Peter watches me leave, I move my hair behind my ear with my middle finger and let it linger.
And when I walk out of there, back to my amazing husband and beautiful daughter, I leave that piece of shit in my dust, where he belongs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ONE MONTH LATER
Sadie
Two awesome things happened today.
Number one, Peter got sentenced to six years in prison for his part in my attack, and for draining my accounts to feed his gambling habit. Allison called me and gave me the good news, and I can’t say I’m not thrilled to bits that he’s finally having to deal with the consequences of his actions. She told me he cried and spluttered and pleaded with the judge to give him a mulligan on the basis of his ‘otherwise unblemished record’ and his ‘standing in the community’, but none was forthcoming.
And second of all, I had my six weeks postpartum check-up with my doctor, and I’m good to go. Hot to trot. Back in action. Able to get back on the horse and ride Leo into the sunset.
And now that Ican, I’m starting to feel tightly nervous about it. It’s ridiculous; I’ve been looking forward to sex being doable again, and now it is, I’m hesitant. And not because I don’t want to get pregnant again - we can take steps to prevent that, as, while I love being Rhiannon’s mummy, I want a good long breakbefore I think about a second baby - but because my body looksnothing like it used to.
I’ve always had the safety net of being objectively hot, according to society’s standards. Perky boobs, nice butt, flat stomach, toned legs. But I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, and I’m covered in tiger stripes, my belly is still a bit jellyish, my butt is enormous, my boobs are covered with yet more stretch marks and blue veins, and aren’t as buoyant as they were, and my nipples look furious with life.
I’m well aware that Leo loves me forme, not for how I look.
But my sense of myself and my own sexuality is all off, and I don’t know if I want him to see me like this, all…deflated, both inside and outside.
When I told Leo that we were good to go tonight, he was so thrilled that he booked us a nice meal at the Red Lion to celebrate, elated by both Peter’s incarceration and my official green light from my GP, and I can’t bear to burst his bubble.
Fuck me, though, I can’t find a damn thing in my wardrobe that’s flattering in any way, shape, or form. I don’t want to wear my old maternity clothes, even though they’re more comfortable right now and hide a multitude of wobbles, but at the same time, my pre-baby clothes still don’t fit right. They emphasise all the areas that are recovering from creating a human, all the lumps and bumps and padded areas.
I’m eating sensibly, I’m making sure I do some yoga poses every day, and I am enough of a militant feminist to be furious with myself for this insecurity when I should be thanking my body for housing my beloved daughter safely for nine months. And, obviously, giving a massive two finger salute to society at large and anyone who thinks pregnant people should snap back to their pre-baby body as fast as possible.
But you try having a husband as gorgeous and lusted after as Leo and see if you can shrug off the jelly belly and scarred skin.
Leo
Something’s not right with my wife.
Sades is picking at her dinner opposite me, listlessly moving it around her plate with her fork more than she’s eating it, and she keeps chewing her lip and tugging on the hem of her loose black t-shirt dress and her flower printed scarf.
It’s the first time we’ve left Rhiannon to go out; Cathy was delighted to be asked to babysit, and we know she’s in safe hands. But my ever-sharp intuition is telling me it’s more than that.
She just…doesn’t seem like herself. She’s distracted and quiet and frowny.
“Would you like to order something different?” I offer.
Her lips bunch in a guilty moue. “No, it’s great. I’m sorry, I just…” She sighs. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Oh,hellno.
I refuse to just sit here while she’s so clearly depressed about something. The words ‘postpartum depression’ flicker through my mind; I’ve been carefully watching her for signs of it, and I thought she was doing well, but I guess it can just happen.
If she’s got it, I will not rest until she’s had all the help and treatment and support she needs to get past it.
So I drop my fork and move to the seat next to her in the booth. “Talk to me.” She turns her head towards me, but doesn’t meet my eye. “You missing Rhiannon? We can take the leftovers and go home if you want?”
There’s a long silence. “It’s not that. I mean, yes, I can’t stop looking at my phone, and I can’t believe how weird it feels not being with her, but…” She stares up at the ceiling, and she looks for all the world like she’s trying not to cry.
“Need to do the back to back thing again?” I ask, remembering that time when we sat that way on Lucinda and Angus’s bench not long after our first kiss.
