But I still wake up some nights in a cold sweat, haunted by the thought of having dropped him. My family history is full of lost boys. Boys who fell. Who drowned. Who became suddenly and unstoppably and unaccountably ill, and the sorrow of their mothers still dwells in me.
I am healing well, but my right leg still looks terrible - all inflamed and scabbed and twilight-coloured.
Between this and the bruises on my arms and face from last week starting to look like a poster child for domestic violence. Also, it's probably just a matter of time before my explanations ('Oh I slipped on a lef', 'Oh I banged myself with the car boot') start to sound like an allegory for spousal abuse.