#mhhhhhhh

Time.

Time, time, fucking time, it's all she's heard about for the last five years.

From Micheal, from Michelle from fucking Zak Brown.

There's still time for a WDC, Daniel.

A few weeks isn't enough time to justify a trip to Monaco with the kids, Daniel.

We are thinking Oscar might be able to match Lando's lap times a little better, Daniel.

"I don't have any fucking time," she chokes out, shrugging away from Max's hand. "I'm not-"

You're not getting any younger Daniel. That time, her mum.

As bad as the pointed way Sophie told her, you know, Max wants a family very much, last Christmas.

She picks up the mocking little plastic stick and throws it angrily into their peddel bin to stop her from snapping it in half. When the soft thud isn't satisfying enough, she kicks it.

"Easy, baby, easy," Max says, startled, as he moves to stand between her and anything else she can try to hurt, to hurt herself with. Not wanting to look at his face, she slams the toilet lid down. Sits down on top of it with her head in her hands.

Breathe, she thinks. Breathe. You're scaring Max. You're scaring yourself. You need to prove you are stronger. You're going to face worse than this if you're a mother. You need to be good enough to deserve this.

No pain, no gain. But then why does this feel like her body protesting the years of misery she put it through trying to win, only to lose anyway and keep losing now.

"I just-" She starts, but she can't even get the rest of the sentence out before she's crying. "Is it too much to ask that this be one thing I don't fucking fail at?"