She had simply had enough.

There was no showdown at teatime over eating their vegetables or refusal to clean their teeth and go to bed on time. She had tucked them in, kissed them goodnight and turned the lights off before going downstairs.

It was in the kitchen where it had dawned on her. The pile of dirty dishes waiting patiently to be placed in the dishwasher; the clothes in the dryer begging to be removed and ironed before folded and put away; the floor that desperately needed mopping and the family table that felt sticky, with very obvious congealed blobs of ketchup, strawberry jam and toffee sauce.

The car wasn’t much better either. Each seat was covered with mysterious stains, the glove compartment was stuffed full of used wet wipes and the floor littered with empty drink cartons and lost sweets gathering fluff. As she drove along the deserted country lane, edged by dense dark hedgerows, she noticed a plastic doll in her rear view mirror, lying face down on the back seat, abandoned by her youngest daughter during the school run, but appearing more like it had passed out drunk after a bottle, or two, of red wine that it had consumed by itself. She put her foot down and sped further away from her house and every single one of her responsibilities, hoping to escape them all.

It was selfish, of course it was. She had wanted to be a mother for as long as she could remember, having spent most of her childhood caring for her younger siblings, she knew she was destined to be a great mother. What she hadn’t really given much thought to was having children. She hadn’t realised how much she would dislike them sometimes and how it would feel as though they had invaded her life, ruining her body, destroying her marriage and wrecking everything she owned.

She was ashamed of her house and her car. She hated the school run and the other mothers, who all appeared to be coping perfectly, while she always turned up with wet hair in a messy ponytail and clothes that always had unexplained stains or holes in them.

She couldn’t stand going to work either, and the judgemental looks when she turned up later than everyone else but left earlier. Her co-workers didn’t even bother hiding their resentment any longer, talking about her when they knew she could hear them, commenting on the quality of her work or how distracted she seemed these days.

She pushed the car a bit harder, going faster, whipping around the tight corners and feeling the old tyres slipping against the tarmac. Could she really do it? Could she continue to drive away and abandon her children? Would they be better off without her?

She stared at the road ahead and let go of the steering wheel for a moment, holding her hands up in the air and surrendering to the feeling of freedom. The car veered to the left and guilt welled in the pit of her stomach. She grabbed the steering wheel again and pushed down on the brake pedal. The car jerked to a stop and threw her forward. She sighed loudly, allowing the tension to flow out of her body, before mounting the muddy bank as she turned the car around and headed back home.