was so desperate to hide the mess of her home life from me, little did she know it was the mess that I longed for. It was not the domestic, cuddly quiet I envied—the sleeping baby in the pram or the perfectly arranged family portraits on social media. The shambles of raising children was what I craved—the toys on the floor, the Disney soundtrack filling a kitchen, the rainfall of tears followed by the rising steam of laughter, the wet jumper after bath time with a wriggling, splashing toddler. My flat had begun to feel so quiet—my shelves too neat, my surfaces too crumbless, my diary pages too
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