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Imagine, it's five in the morning. You rise from bed, head pounding, ankle swollen. You're tired.

You go to the bathroom and throw up.

Morning sickness. You're 21 years old and about 12 weeks pregnant. You didn't expect to feel this terrible.

Oh, wait! There's more. You vomit again.

You look in the mirror.

Barefoot and groggy. You walk to the hall. Sunlight from the window at the top of the stairs silhouettes your body through your nightgown.

Is that a baby bump starting to show?

You smell fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen. You miss coffee more than anything.

Honey, are you still here?

Your husband appears in the foray at the bottom of the stairs. Mug in one hand boots in the other.

I'm here. Is everything all right?

Where are you going? I told you I'm going hunting.

You're disappointed. You hoped he'd want to spend the day with you. You're feeling sad and depressed. Maybe it's hormones. Maybe not.

Regardless, you don't want to be alone today.

I thought you were going to the nursery. The gardeners are starting the terrace by the tennis court this week. You're better at choosing shrubbery than I am. Why don't you just go without me?

He laces up his boots and gathers his gear. You feel helpless. Why are you always running away from me?

I hunt every Saturday when we're at the country house. You know that. It clears my head. It's therapeutic. He grabs his hat and coat. You feel desperate. And then angry.

He's really leaving you alone. Again, being pregnant is no picnic, you know.

You're in a mood this morning. Why don't you go back to sleep? Something you're good at.

His voice is scornful, dismissive. You hate that tone. You teeter on the edge of the topstair. I'll kill myself. He lets out a laugh. Not a big laugh. Then he turns towards the door.

Okay, but don't make a mess. The maid's not until Monday. That's when you do it. Without thinking. From the top of the stairs you're lean. And for a single moment, time stands still. You're free.

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