Any Other Mother

ANY OTHER MOTHER Kelly Lyons First published in the UK in 2023 Copyright © Kelly Lyons, 2023 The right of Kelly Lyons to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Trigger Warning: This book contains themes of pregnancy, including descriptions and references of miscarriage, and discussions about abortion. Chapter One Abby I’ve always felt like I’m a hypocrite, especially in my line of work. Countless mothers I’ve helped – guiding them before conception, sometimes through IVF, then supporting them through their pregnancy journey, and then finally postpartum as they juggle the many different and overwhelming things that go alongside the sheer joy of being a new mother. But for me, having a child has never been something I’ve wanted – having another baby, I should say. Though with Christina having just turned sixteen, I suppose I can no longer think of her as my baby, really, despite the fact that even when she’s celebrating her fiftieth, I’ll probably still see her that way. Through all the years when it was just her and me, struggling through the world, what with the very little amount of child support I was able to clutch on to, I always thought that our little twosome would be enough. We didn’t need anybody else. But then, of course, Joe came along – my sweet, perfect Joe. If you’d told me that I’d meet my Mr Right so late in life I would have laughed in your face. After everything with Christina’s father, I’d always given up on the idea of love – romantic love, anyway. Like I said, Christina was all I ever needed. Joe and I have been married for six years now and we’re still going strong. Aside from the odd fight about nothing – whose turn it is to send the car for the MOT, making sure the light bulbs are changed in the attic, whether I actually agreed for him to cut down on his hours as a chef so he could focus on his novel (I didn’t) – maintaining our relationship is as effortless and pain-free as I could ever expect. So that would usually mean that the idea of having a child together would be the next logical step. But I’ve been so against the idea for so long – not even against; I simply made the assumption that it wasn’t in my future – that the very prospect of it had taken me by surprise. Me? At my age? And so started our long journey – our very long journey – to this pregnancy. I’m such a calm and rational person, and with all the information I have from my work, I knew it would be difficult. But I was never prepared for how heart-breaking the loss can be. This is the fifth pregnancy in half as many years and I’m on constant watch for any sign of the unusual. Which is why spending time with my clients, such as Mrs Turner who sits in front of me this very second, is so hard these days. I’ve aways been so objective when it comes to my work. I give advice and I guide. There’s never been any overlap with my personal life. Until now. Mrs Turner looks a little worse for wear: her skin is pale and waxen and her hair messily tied up in a loose bun. She’s wearing one of those hospital gowns in that sickening off white colour – the type I know the senior nurses only pull out when there’s been some kind of issue with the laundry and they’re running short. Strands of sweaty, wet hair stick to her forehead and she doesn’t even notice. It’s understandable. After all, it’s only been two days since she gave birth, and it was a complicated delivery at that. Baby girl, who does not as yet have a name, is safely tucked away in a cot on the floor above us with the rest of the newborns, probably dreaming of her mother whose voice she has come to recognise after eight months in the womb and wondering where she is. Postpartum depression is a frighteningly common ailment, though at this point, I wouldn’t say there is anything to worry about for Mrs Turner. I can usually tell the difference between a clinical depressive and a first-time mother scared out of her wits. I just need to get this across to her, in the politest way possible. “Is there any medication I could take? I’m sure with a little something, the problem will go away. It’s not something I can think my way out of, I know that. I’m just so tired. And she’s not latching. I never expected it to be like this. Is there something you can prescribe? My friend, Becky, she went through this before and she took some pills and whoof, problem gone. Happy as anything and took her little Chloe home that day.” “I don’t think you’re quite there yet, Mrs Turner,” I say gently. “There are many techniques that are less intrusive which will benefit you a lot more before we should try intervening with something stronger.” “No, I think I want something stronger. I don’t think you understand exactly what I’m going through.” I sigh. Technically, I don’t. When I had Christina, I was just a slip of a thing and I completely took for granted how easy the whole process went for