There is a moment, the hand of the clock barely marks it, when the day belongs to her. She breathes deeply, removes the heavy arm draped around her and slides out of bed. Tiptoeing down the hall to have the moment prolonged against the waking of the household, she sneaks out of the house and into the garden. Her garden.
Under the heavy branches of the ancient willow, she opens a book, sighs deeply and begins reading. Every morning, she tries to predict who will break the blissful quiet first—Hugo’s wailing for her breast, or Rose’s toddler inquisition.