“What happened to that baby?”, my five-year old asked me this morning.
“Which baby?”, I asked.
“The baby you were telling Papa about”, he said. “That one which was locked up in a dark room by his mother.”
A few days back, I had been telling my husband about a baby that had been abandoned when the police raided his home and sealed it up. The kid was close to starvation and apparently looked like something out of a horror movie.
I hadn’t realised my kids were listening, and processing, and remembering. Must learn not to carry my work home.
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