I left home with my baby and went up North to stay at a friend's house in Chester. I chose her because I knew she would take care of me kindly but not allow me to wallow in self-pity or do anything rush. I switched off my phone and put the car radio on, very loud, to drown my thoughts.

For the first few days, my friend did not talk about the reason why I had suddenly turned up on her door step with the baby and enough clothes to last me a month, but no husband. I heard her whisper down the phone a couple of times; my name was uttered in those conversations. I idly worried that Mr Husband would come and fetch me, but he must have been told not to, to let things cool off a little.

It was during that week that I suddenly realised how completely trapped I was. The brevity of those few days away only brought with it the sudden realisation that there was nowhere for me to go, apart from driving back home. I had never thought of personal responsibilities as shackles; I had viewed them more like an opportunity to grow as a person and exercise control over my otherwise shambolic life. In the process of adding on to my life, though, I lost the very person I was at the beginning of it.

Of all the persuasive arguments my friend used to convince me to view the disaster as a mere 'incident', there was only one which worked. I still remember the words: 'I would stay with the devil incarnate if he were the father of my children. They need him.'

So I went back, unsure as to whether my friend meant to call Mr Husband the devil incarnate. By then, it made little difference. I slept in the baby's room, on the floor. I kept out of the way whilst I was analysing the pieces and rebuilding the puzzle. Every time I added a new fragment, I felt stronger in a more detached way.

We tip-toed around each other with the politeness of new flat-mates.

It was only after another week or so, one morning, when I was feeding the baby in his high chair with a cup of coffee in front of me, and Mr Husband walked into the kitchen in his suit, ready to go to work, that I carefully positioned the last fragment in place and stepped back to examine my shattered life. Anger came in nauseating waves.

Without a warning, I picked up the cup of coffee and threw it at him. It was strong, hot black coffee; he was wearing a pristine white shirt, perfectly ironed.

The baby laughed. There were black lashings, elongated shapes of dark fury whipping the kitchen floor, walls, and even the ceiling. Mr Husband's shirt got completely soaked; so did his suit and shoes. The cup's broken pieces fell all over the place prettily, in slow motion. I spilt baby rice all over my clothes.

Mr Husband stood like a coffee-stained statue, shocked. I swear I heard the drip-drip of the last dregs falling onto the tiled floor. I'd never seen the kitchen that dirty.

After an eternity, the father of my children started to laugh. It was a merry laugh of relief, of lonely nights spent worrying silently, of guilt and fear. 'I love you', he said, looking fairly ridiculous in his soaked shirt. 'We can overcome this.'

The baby cooed. I wanted to say that I wanted to overcome it on my own, but I remembered my promise to love and obey. The devil incarnate. My children.

'Go upstairs and get changed', I replied. When he left the kitchen, I allowed myself to cry a little, but I turned my face so the baby would not see me.