Daddy plants the door key in to the lock and slowly opens the front door after a day at work. He steps inside and stops still; he stands tall but can’t hear any screaming, giggling, talking, things being chucked on the floor by baby, steriliser sterilising, mummy talking to baby, mummy saying no to baby, baby saying yes, mummy asking daddy to entertain baby, or toys playing songs. No, none of that. He has a look around his home and sees a house which resembles an abandoned ghost town. Nobody home. Not even the cat. Toys littered on the floor with lights still flashing eager to play the next nursery rhyme in line; ladybird balloons bobbing around the room from the sudden gust of air; a fake lawnmower trying to mow the carpet; baby’s high-chair littered with crumbs and mess from baby’s lunch; changing bag on the floor with a nappy hanging out; full cup of tepid tea left on the cabinet, paused tv programme with “-129 mins” written on the bottom left of the screen. The house was empty. Deserted. Abandoned.
It was as if mummy had just got word that a zombie outbreak had taken a foot-hold in the UK and an unruly pack of infected zombies had managed to climb up the White cliffs of Dover and were heading toward West Sussex. It was as if mummy subsequently dropped everything, picked baby up and ran out the door to drive to an army safe-zone….without me.
Had she left me?
She hadn’t. There were no zombies nearby. Mummy and baby were simply having a nap together upstairs.