The christening is a short, loving affair; the church, my own, with well-known creased faces and crumpled hymns.

Later, at the baby's house, I face the reality of nuclear families with dressed-up children and parents sharing the pudding on comfy sofas. Inane chatter, familiar smiles.

Somewhere in the other room, my soon-to-be Ex-Husband engages in pleasant conversation with people he has never met before. Pest n.1 and n.2 hog the train set when they are not dangling upside down from the playframe outside, in the whipping cold rain.

Proper bat's children.

I hide behind loading the dishwasher in my stilettos; I bounce the newly baptised baby on my knees and smile at the camera.

*Smile* (I want to run a mile)

*Smile* (I want to flee the scene)

*Smile* (Can't you see I am not really here?)

When the mother gives her little, moving and heart-felt speech, I hear the words and understand the feelings although I do not share them: feelings of belonging, of gratitude and trust. Of evenings spent together by the fireplace, stroking contentness on one's lap like a cat. Of shared vision of the future and life.

That's a happy couple. I bounce their baby and wonder if those evenings will ever come for me, if I will ever feel that way.