else rose to take its place. A thought took her, a determination to finish it, to free herself,
to be more than just a mother and a housekeeper and a taxi service and an organiser and a
drain and a burden and...
She bit her lip, stepped out into the garden, no longer caring what she stood on as she
fought to keep the words inside. But what rose in her throat was too big, too determined;
what rose wanted to be heard.
Turning back towards the house, she prepared to scream, to demand her freedom, her
life back.
But in the instant she drew breath, she heard Lou’s door scrape open, his feet thudding
across the landing, his voice calling to her, and her resolve died like a salted slug.
Locking the back door behind her, she crept back up the darkened stairs to her son,
tracking damp footprints on the carpet – a silver trail of her own.
But by morning, it had dried up and gone.
Karl comes from the North West of
England, where he lives with his wife
and five-year-old daughter (his
toughest critics). He began submitting
stories three years ago, when the
spectre of turning 40 started looming
in the near future, and will continue
until someone tells him to stop.