Dear Rosie Rabbit,

I would like to say sorry for my funny turn the other day. You were very caring and brave.

I spoke of my baby boy, who has been a big secret in my life. You are the only soul in the world who knows (apart from my family of course). Not even my dear darling Barry knows. If I told him, he would think I was a terrible person.

On 7 May 1982, when I was only fifteen years old – not that much older than you! – I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy whom I had to give up for adoption. He would be 34 years old now. There is not a day that goes by when I don’t think of him. Sometimes I wonder if I see him on the street or in the supermarket! Imagine that!

I try ever so hard to be strong about it, but when his birthdays come up or when something reminds me of him, I am afraid I go to pieces. You see, I was forced to sign the papers by my mother. I thought I would die from heartbreak. I certainly never imagined how I could go on living. It is hard to describe how wild I went when the two ladies took him away from me in the hospital when he was only fifteen days old. There has never been a more devastating moment. I didn’t even care what the nurses and doctors thought of me! It was like having my heart and soul ripped from my chest and honestly, my dear Rosie, I think I still have that hole where my heart was. If I didn’t hear it beating, I don’t think I would know for sure it was still there. They say time is a healer. What a load of codswallop!

He was poorly when he was born. I always wondered whether it was his way of staying with me a little bit longer in the hospital. He needed his mummy’s milk, you see. I still remember every tiny detail of his face because I used to stare at him when he was feeding from me. He had a rather large nose – a bit like mine! – and thick glossy black hair – a bit like his useless father (who was terribly vain about his hair)! His mouth had a dip in the middle, which lined up symmetrically with the deep groove in his chin. I imagine he is a handsome fellow now. But I would say that, wouldn’t I? Every parent is a little biased about their children.

So, it’s not surprising I can be a little strange sometimes. Please forgive me for scaring you. I feel very well again now. And maybe I can show you some photographs of me when I was pregnant, to make you laugh! I was not a pretty sight, let me tell you.

Please don’t be sad when you read of my loss. About sixteen years ago, he would have turned eighteen years old, which means he could have contacted me if he wished. I spent his eighteenth year hiding the post from Barry to check for a letter from him, but I gave up in the end. Deep down, I have always known that he is probably too happy to bother with me.

Please do come by to see me again soon. I very much hope things are easier at home for you.

With much love,

Mrs E (I won’t spell it. I like Mrs E!)

---

Mira folded up the letter and slid it carefully into an envelope and wrote Rosie Bradley neatly on the front. To Mira, it was like a delicate relic that even the slightest smear or crinkle could destroy or sully. The weather had been dry over night, but she would find a plastic sandwich bag to wrap it in to prevent the damp from the garden getting to it, and a few sweeties for luck. It was likely Rosie would check the blue bucket straight after school.

For now, she left it in the centre of the bureau and she went upstairs to find her watch for work. The stairs seemed to leave her more breathless than usual. Writing about her son had taken everything out of her, but it had given her a thrill, as though the hope that they would be reunited one day was nearer somehow. As though sixteen years of his silence had not passed.

She heard the front door open.

‘What have you forgotten?’ she called down to Barry.

‘Just those bills with our address on! I need them to collect my rake from the post office!’

‘Okay, love,’ she called back casually, and then with a start, remembered where the bills were kept. She charged downstairs, sick to the stomach with fear. If he saw the letter on the bureau addressed to Rosie, Mira didn’t know how she would explain.

When she arrived at the bureau, she found that Barry was already holding the opened letter in his hand. His eyes behind his darkened lens suggested he had managed to read enough to know everything.

The shame of looking at him was like hot pokers thrust into her eye sockets.

Mira snatched the letter, turned on her heels and skittered out of the house to rapidly wheel the bucket and letter over to Rosie before Barry caught up with her. It was important she explained her behaviour to Rosie, or she risked losing her too. Barry was not going to get in the way of that.

---

Every second of her day at school was torture. She tried to keep herself upright.

She was irritable with the children, especially the ones who had forgotten their PE kit, and snappy with Patricia, who seemed to be blaming her for the fact that the children didn’t know the words to their Christmas songs, even though it wasn’t yet December.

At least the pettiness of her school day distracted her from the rift that had split open her home life. Every time she thought of it, she caught her breath. It was unfathomable that Barry now knew about her baby boy, whom she had managed to keep secret for all of their marriage. She couldn’t truly believe it had happened. So she soldiered on, the severed connection between body and mind allowing her to function on a low-level, emergency-only setting.

Barry wasn’t at home when she got back from work. Weary from the pretence of being normal, she plodded up the stairs, desperate to soak in her bath. Thankfully, Barry was bound to be late back from Boscarny House, where the lady of the house would not let him go until every thread of grass and every leaf was where it should be.

But just as her tired limbs were enveloped in the silky warmth of the bath, Barry came into the bathroom, carrying two glasses of red wine and a bowl of cheese puffs, her favourite, on a tray. Aside from everything that he had learnt about her today, he was thoughtful enough to bring her what she needed most: routine, comfort, and a little luxury to remind her that life would carry on. He was telling her that nothing had to change.

He didn’t say anything. He simply sat in the wicker chair. Next door, all was quiet.

They both sipped their wine in the tense, loaded silence. Part of her now wanted Rosie’s screams to fill the emptiness.

She said finally, ‘It was the right thing to do to give him up.’

Little ripples of water were spreading in circles from her heart.

‘Of course it was, love.’

‘I gave him a better life.’

‘You were fifteen years old,’ he murmured, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

‘He was the only man I ever slept with. Until you.’

‘Man?’

‘Boy,’ Mira corrected. She couldn’t tell him everything, not everything. There were some secrets that were worth taking to the grave.

‘Does he know?’

‘He didn’t want anything to do with it.’

‘That’s probably a blessing.’

‘He’ll have a proper father who loves him now.’

‘And a mother,’ Barry added.

Mira swallowed hard, but she could not bring herself to talk of another ‘proper’ mother. She was his mother.

‘I put my name on the register but he never got in contact, so that’s that.’

Barry reached for some crisps and stuffed a large handful into his mouth from his palm.

‘So he must be happy,’ Mira added.

‘And you’re happy too,’ Barry stated, as though he needed it to be so.

Mira hesitated. ‘Sometimes I look at a man’s features on the street or in cars or in the supermarket and wonder if it could be him.’

‘Your paths would never cross.’

‘How do you know?’

‘That stuff only happens in films.’

‘Life is stranger than the films sometimes.’

‘Anyhow, it wouldn’t matter either way.’

‘But what if I want to see him?’ she said quietly.

Barry crashed his glass down on the basin side. ‘That’s not your right!’

Her mouth fell open. Wide-eyed, she said calmly, ‘Careful, that’s our wedding crystal.’

‘He has his own life and you have yours and don’t you forget it,’ Barry said, pointing his finger aggressively.

Over twenty-five years of marriage and she had never seen him lose his temper. It was shocking, riling even. How dare he?

‘His life came from my body. He is my life.’

‘How can you say that?’ Barry yelled, standing up. ‘I’m your life!’

The bath water fell stony cold. There was something frightening in Barry’s eyes and she wanted to get out of the bath, get out of his confined space, but she did not want to be vulnerable and naked in front of him. She did not want him to sneer at her used-up belly, which had once held that baby boy.

‘Keep your voice down,’ Mira said, glancing over at the window, fearful that the Bradleys would hear. The irony of that.

‘This is my house, I can shout all I like!’ He was taut with anger, rooted to the spot with it. Mira imagined a wind blowing, turning him to stone. His finger pointed at her in accusation.

Mira held her nose and sank down into the bathwater, covering her head, holding her breath. She would stay there until he was gone. One, two, three, four, she counted. Thirty-three, thirty-four.

A deadened flow of Barry’s ranting reached her from the outside.

Then silence. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer, but she would. Sixty-one, sixty-two. If she died here, she didn’t care. It was pleasant to be away from it all. It was easier; though she wondered how she could anchor her head under when her instinct would be to gasp for air. She imagined Barry’s merciful fingers as a bracelet around her neck, pinning her to the bottom.

Then two arms shot down into the water and pulled her body out. She spluttered into Barry’s chest, her body soaking his jumper. ‘Mira, my Mira, oh my love, don’t do that, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed.

‘Let’s never talk about it again,’ Mira said, cold flesh in his arms.

‘Never, never,’ he agreed, kissing her head.