Annette wondered about that; about all those mothers, snapping and cracking, bending and breaking. Sometimes, she’d think that there had to be more women like her; that she couldn’t be the only one. She looked for them, the women who, like her, had held their babies in their arms and looked down at those dear, tiny faces, the womb-crumpled ears and off-kilter noses, and felt… nothing. No, worse than nothing: bone-deep terror, a certainty that they would make nothing but mistakes and cause nothing but pain, and an overwhelming desire to run. Other women who would sit at home with that new baby
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