ROSIE

Emma Robbins

What felt like a moment soon became March. And the hospital visits, blood transfusions and the worry seemed to melt away. I began the year by bundling you in scarves and coats, so you wouldn’t catch another cold. Now you’re embalmed in sunscreen, bouncing on the trampoline. We needed a fresh start after everything that had happened.
       Just me and you.
       But I miss the neighbours from our old home. The new ones don’t seem as friendly. So much has changed, and I don’t really know how to explain it. Mommy and me classes never properly explained how to tell your kid you’ve divorced her father. He said you’d changed. That the past was past. And at some point, we needed to move on with our lives.
       Before going to bed, I pray. Pray that this year won’t be as bad as the last, that you won’t spend the summer wired to machines, and that we’ll be happier.
       Just me and you.
       My little girl Rosie.

'Has she improved since her last session?’
       ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Your wife still seems to be experiencing these delusions. And she’s starting to upset other patients in the facility. Security has been called four times in the past week, after your wife broke into the children's ward.’
       ‘Surely there’s more you can do? What about medication?’
       ‘She won’t take them.’
       ‘Well, make her. Haven’t you done anything? If it were up to me, I would have burnt that fucking doll already.’
       ‘I’m afraid that would make things worse, your wife’s grown very attached to her new Rosie.’