The Day goes by uneventful; the baby sleeps on the couch in the living room as I tidy the house quietly around him. I can’t bring myself to carry him back to his own room, not while I can keep a protective eye on him down here. My husband wouldn’t like it one bit, would say I was being obsessive, smothering, but he’s not here right now and I can do anything I want. It’s not until the clock rolls around to five p.m. that I venture into the baby’s room, the last room in the house to clean. I pull the broom over the polished wood floor, watchful for telltale claw marks and demon fingernail clippings.
There’s nothing here to
confirm the noises of the night before, but then again, my parents never found anything in my room, either. I lay my son in his own bed and gather up the laundry and used wet naps. He is awake now, barely, watching me move around the room much as I am always watching him. I smile a smile so big it feels like my face is going to split and wiggle my fingers at him. “Hello, sugar