She knew it was going to be one of those mornings. She could feel it as soon as she opened her eyes.
“Rosy?” Michael had called in the night.
“In here, I’m fine,” she had said. “Don’t get up.”
Muffled objection from the bedroom.
Soft and concerned.
“Is today going to be one of those days?” asks Michael, shuffling into the kitchen. “You really, really need to see the doctor.”
But it’s happening.
She’s drowning again.
The air turns to water in her lungs and she’s gasping.
The room dissolves and a solid brown mass rushes to her, and the crack of her face against the kitchen floor is inaudible to her.
And as Michael holds her hand the doctor says,