Tag: gaslighting thriller book

The drizzle comes in sideways from Morecambe Bay, the kind that soaks you without seeming to try. It streaks the sash windows of our Victorian terrace, blurring the view of Scotforth’s quiet streets where students hurry past with their hoods up, rucksacks clutched against the November wind.

The castle bells toll faintly in the distance, their bronze voices carrying across Lancaster like a reminder that this place has been weighing people down for centuries.

Inside, the radiator clanks its familiar protest while Josh’s Fisher-Price garage plays its electronic tune for the hundredth time this morning. The sound should be cheerful—bright plastic optimism against the grey day—but it feels like mockery.

“Mummy, look!” Josh’s sticky fingers tug at my cardigan, leaving jammy prints on the navy wool. “Car is fast!”

I glance down at his chubby face, all earnest concentration as he pushes a red toy car up the plastic ramp. Four years old and already more focused than I manage most days.

“That’s lovely, sweetheart,” I murmur, turning back to my laptop screen where a half-finished logo design stares accusingly at me. The client—a boutique hotel in the Lake District—wants something “fresh but timeless, modern but authentic.” The brief makes my teeth ache with its contradictions, but the invoice will help with this month’s mortgage. If I can actually finish the bloody thing.

My mobile buzzes with another email notification. Probably another client chasing work I promised for yesterday, or the day before. The cursor blinks in the design software, waiting for inspiration that won’t come. Instead, I have Peppa Pig nattering from the television, Josh demanding attention every thirty seconds, and the persistent ache behind my eyes that’s become my constant companion since becoming a mother.

The kitchen still bears evidence of breakfast chaos—Weetabix cemented to Josh’s high chair, coffee rings on the work surface, his beaker knocked over and spreading orange juice across yesterday’s post. I catch it before it reaches the bills and mop quickly with a tea towel. Small victory.

I should have cleared it up hours ago. But the logo needs finishing, and Josh needs entertaining, and somewhere in between I’m supposed to be a functioning adult.

I stare out the window again, watching a young woman with perfectly styled hair stride past in a raincoat that probably costs more than I spend on clothes in six months. She moves with the confidence of someone who’s never sat in pyjamas until noon, paralysed by the weight of her own inadequacy.

The other mothers at Dallas Road Primary have that same assurance. Gemma Harding, who teaches at the grammar school and always looks like she’s stepped from a magazine spread. Sarah Whitworth, whose three children are permanently scrubbed and dressed in coordination. I bet she has a cleaner on speed dial.

They make motherhood look effortless, while I feel like I’m drowning in the shallow end.

I had plans once. A first-class degree in graphic design from Central Saint Martins, a portfolio that landed me work with decent London agencies. I was going to be someone who mattered, whose work meant something. Instead, I’m pushing thirty-five and designing logos for provincial hotels while my toddler wipes his nose on the sofa. The sofa he seems to believe is his personal handkerchief.

The guilt hits like a familiar punch to the stomach. Josh deserves better than a mother who resents her circumstances, who looks at him and sees everything she’s given up rather than everything she’s gained. He’s beautiful, bright, affectionate—a miracle I waited years for, went through three miscarriages to have. The silence of those hospital corridors still echoes sometimes, the crumpled scan photos I keep in my bedside drawer a reminder of what I nearly lost forever.

So why do I feel like I’m suffocating?

“Mummy sad?” Josh has abandoned his cars and is studying my face with the unsettling perception children possess.

“No, love. Mummy’s just thinking.” I reach out and ruffle his curls, soft as silk under my fingers. He leans into my touch, trusting and warm, and something loosens in my chest despite everything.

But he’s right, isn’t he? I am sad, tired, lost in a life that feels too small for the person I thought I was. The rain intensifies against the glass, and I imagine it washing the whole street clean, carrying me somewhere I can start again.

Outside, Lancaster carries on without me. Gulls circle inland from the bay, their cries sharp against the wind. Buses rumble past, filled with people who have somewhere important to be. The last time I went into town, Penny Street was crowded with students whose energy made me feel ancient at thirty-five, displaced in my own city.

I close my eyes and hear my mother’s voice, sharper now that she’s gone: “Don’t let people think you can’t cope, Emma. There’s no shame worse than that.” But I can’t cope, can I? I’m failing at the one thing women are supposed to do naturally, instinctively. Josh plays quietly beside me, and I wonder if he already knows his mother isn’t enough.

Daniel’s key turns in the front door at half past six, punctual as always. He appears in the doorway still wearing his suit jacket, his accountant’s uniform. His gaze sweeps the living room, taking inventory: the scattered toys, Josh still in his pyjamas from this morning, me curled on the sofa with my laptop balanced on a cushion.

“Daddy!” Josh scrambles up and runs to him, arms outstretched.

Daniel scoops him up, planting a kiss on his head before setting him down. “Hello, trouble. Been good for Mummy?”

“Look, car!”

 “That’s great, son.” He turns to me. “Busy day?” His tone is carefully neutral as he looks at me, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his voice caught when he spoke to Josh.

“The usual chaos.” I close the laptop, conscious of how little I’ve achieved. “How was work?”

“Fine. Good, actually. The Morrison account came through.” He loosens his tie, running a hand through hair that’s starting to thin at the crown. When he sits heavily in the armchair across from me, his shoulders sag. “Emma, we need to talk.”

Something in his voice makes me straighten. “About what?”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself. To us.” He glances at Josh, who’s returned to his cars, then back at me. “You’re drowning, love. Josh needs structure, routine. You need help.”

The word ‘help’ lands like criticism. “I’m managing perfectly well.”

“Are you? When did you last leave the house? When did we last have a proper conversation that wasn’t about logistics or Josh’s needs?”

Heat rises in my chest. “I’m doing my best, Daniel. I’m working, I’m looking after our son—”

“I know you are. But it’s not sustainable.” His voice softens, which somehow makes it worse. “Other families on this street have nannies, childminders. There’s no shame in admitting you need support.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sarah Whitworth recommended someone. A lovely girl, apparently. Very experienced with early years.”

A stranger in my house, judging my parenting, reorganising my chaos according to their superior methods. The thought makes my skin crawl.

“No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Daniel’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays gentle. “Then what’s your solution? Because this isn’t working, Emma. For any of us.”

Josh has gone quiet during our exchange, sensing the tension that crackles between his parents. He clutches his toy car and watches us with wide, uncertain eyes.

“I’ll sort it out,” I say, my voice smaller than I intend. “I just need to get into a better routine.”

Daniel nods, but I can see he doesn’t believe me. Neither do I, really. But the alternative—admitting I can’t cope, inviting scrutiny from some competent stranger who’ll see through my pretence in minutes—feels impossible.

After he’s gone upstairs to change, I sit in the gathering dusk with Josh curled against my side, his warm weight the only solid thing in a day that feels like it’s dissolving around me. The rain has stopped, but the windows still weep with condensation.

Josh breathes softly against me, his curls damp with sweat, and I press my cheek to the top of his head. Whatever happens, he is mine. I am his.

I tell myself I don’t need a stranger in my home, don’t need someone else to love my child better than I can. I’m his mother, his first love, the person responsible for keeping him safe and whole.

I hold him tighter, as if love alone will be enough to keep us safe.