When the nurse placed it in my arms for the first time the pit inside opened up and swallowed me.

David named it Jack after his favourite uncle. I didn’t see the point. It was a relief whenever the nurses took it away.

The days stretched, became thin. Jack cried a lot; so did I.

The darkness inside seeped out.

Yet no one noticed.

I smiled when expected, and kept my house and child clean and tidy. It was better when the world was numb, because it hurt too much to bear the weight of my sins.

At night I watched Jack asleep in his cot, and I tried to force myself to love it. But there was only hate and bitterness, guilt and shame.

Now, I only have to wait. Soon I won’t wake up to this blunted grey world.

I don’t know what comes next, but it can’t be worse than this.

Match the story (and the number) to the face at Mirrors.