I thought Zoe was asleep, spooning, warm against my belly, till I heard her plaintiff little voice. ‘Why won’t she stop Mummy?’ 

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It was 5am. Tilly had cried most of the night. 

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Rugged up in winter coats, beanies and gloves, we’d headed to the river. It was cold. Damn cold. I spotted an old guy—Joe—in his kayak and I wondered if Tilly’s wailing was spoiling his morning too. She just wouldn’t settle. I picked her up, but it was an effort to walk and hold her. I’d felt like pushing the bloody pram into the river. For a fleeting second, if I’m honest, I’d thought of chucking Tilly into the river. 

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Zoe spotted a duck and was trotting along behind it, veering off the track, arms outstretched. She tripped and stumbled. I lost sight of her—but heard the splash. I watched as Joe tumbled out of his kayak and dived under. I couldn’t see Zoe. I couldn’t see either of them. 

 

Our early morning on the Barwon made the front page of The Addy. Joe, the hero. Zoe, the lucky toddler. I was the negligent single mum—although they hadn’t used those words. There was no mention of the screaming baby. 

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We visit Joe at the Barrabool Bupa every month. I can’t manage more than that. I can’t bear the guilt. Eighty-year-old men don’t survive pneumonia, they don’t ever get back home, or back into a kayak—no matter how fit they were.

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Joe knows what I’m thinking. But he’s cheerful. ‘I can still wheel myself down to the river, love,’ he says. ‘That’s the upside. And I’ll die happy knowing I saved Zoe.’ Then, more quietly, chuckling, ‘my boy says he’ll scoop out my kayak and put a wooden lid on it—when the time comes.’