This is a sacred moment. You women, you single mothers, you know what I'm talking about. It's that time of the evening. Glass of red, bar of chocolate, baby in bed. Bliss.
This moment of quiet. This peace. No man will ever understand this feeling. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. There are single fathers out there. I wonder if they find it as hard as us? I bet they crash when the baby's in bed. They don't have a clue. There is always something else to do. There's cleaning to be finished, laundry to be done, baby bottles to be sterilised. I can't see them continuing once their child is asleep. I bet they finally admit defeat and let the exhaustion wash over them and they pass out in front of the TV, toys strewn throughout the house, food still clinging to the high chair, the laundry pile getting higher.
But for us. The women. We know what must be done. We know the reward at the end. We crave that elusive silence, but we wait for it. We work our tits off to make sure everything is done and then we enjoy our time. Mummy time. Like I said, glass of wine, bar of chocolate, Hollyoaks, Eastenders, Coronation Street. Bliss.
Tonight is Saturday. Britain's Got Talent. Simon Cowell and his white t-shirts. Amy's been asleep for an hour. I can hear her steady breathing in the baby monitor.
I don't complain. I never complain. She's my world. Her father didn't want to know. He was a prick, anyway. She's two, has curly blonde hair and these blue eyes that could stop your heart. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful and precious thing in this world. It's hard to imagine anything else being that perfect.
I've put away her toys. I've had myself a nice bath. I used those bath bomb things Sharon got me for Christmas and lit a couple of candles. The house is quiet. Cosy. There are a couple of creaks as it settles in for the night. I've ordered myself a Chinese. Why not, eh girls?
Simon's on TV. He's criticising a ventriloquist act. I pour myself a large glass of red wine. A cheap Merlot from Aldi. Before I settle into the couch, I turn the volume up on the baby monitor.
The cushions on the couch gather me in a warm embrace and I burrow into their soft fabric. I have one sip of Wine and Abigail starts to cry. It's sudden and gives me a fright.
I get up from the couch and that's when I hear it. Another voice. A man's voice. The sound of it sends a chill down my spine. The voice is soft but coarse. I can almost smell its foul breath.
'Come with me little baby,' it drawls.
