Mary. It was meant to be. The doors swing open and we enter the ward. It greets us with an open plan waiting area with sofas, magazines, and potted plants. On the left there’s a neat reception desk with a pleasant looking receptionist, sitting upright, blond hair tied back, no make-up but pretty. The walls are adorned with bright words: wellbeing, health, happiness… It’s supposed to put us at ease , but it feels more like a false sense of security. My muscles clench at the thought of what lurks beyond the comfy sofas. “Good morning, how can I help you?” asks the receptionist. Mum puts her handbag on the desk and rifles through it. “My daughter is here. I mean, she’s here for the… umm…” “I’m here to be committed,” I say with a sideways smile. “You’ve got the straight jacket in my size, right?” Mum clucks. “Mary!”
