I think it was a weekday during our first pandemic lockdown. I was supposed to be doing housework. The kids were keeping themselves occupied with something.
Having children is terrifying. You can be sure that some idiot, somewhere in the world, would think it a fine thing indeed to cut your kids' throats. Sometimes I wig out a little as I watch my two little fools and feel viscerally how much they mean to me.
A feeling like that came over me, and then it began to organise itself like a story in my head. It wasn't my kids who appeared in the story, but that feeling haunted the way it told itself to me.
I played hooky from housework for about half an hour (don't tell anybody) and sat down to type the story out in a rush. It was barely even a story at all, just a voice talking.
Edit, revise, repeat, etc., and, long story short, I sent it out to a few magazines. Freshwater Literary Review was kind enough to pick it up, and it appears in their 2022 issue, just released. You can read the whole issue here.