Our house is a full one, but that is just the way I like it. The noise, the chaos, the mess, but also the unconditional love. With eight wonderful children, it’s no secret that I adore being a mum – my children mean everything to me. But a few years ago, my whole life’s purpose was called into question when my husband and I were accused of the worst thing imaginable – hurting our baby.
Anthony, then 27, and I had just had our daughter Zeydn in 2015, and with my four children from previous relationships, Zach, then nine, Zoey, six, Zander, five, and Zavier, four, we had our hands full.
Zeydn, nine weeks, was a much fussier baby than any of her siblings had been, and I began to worry that something wasn’t quite right. She didn’t use her right arm much and holding her on my shoulder and patting her back one day, her little ribs made a strange popping sound.
I was really concerned, so after dropping off the older kids at school, I took Zeydn to hospital for an X-ray.
Afterwards, the paediatrician who came to me with the results seemed cold and stern, and he didn’t have Zeydn with him.
He explained that she had a fractured right arm and three rib fractures in multiple stages of healing. I just stared at him dumbfounded. Had he got the right mother? Was he talking about the right baby? How on earth could Zeydn possibly have injuries like that?
Then what he said next chilled me. ‘Someone has hurt your baby.’
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