My mother was dying. I said it over and over in my head. My mother is dying my mother is dying. When I was little I used to fantasise that I got very bad news in a public place, and my friends would feel sorry for me and I’d be kind of famous. In my fantasies, the head teacher would call me out of class, or I’d get a phone call while on the school bus. Everyone would stare at me. I liked the idea. It comforted me, sent me to sleep. My mum is dying my mum is dying my mum is dying. No fame, and no comfort, in this nonsensical sentence. I decided to try my mum’s advice again (‘Just don’t think about it’), as thinking about it was making me cry even harder. I took three deep breaths, knocked on the door, and went inside. She was sleeping, or at least she had her eyes shut. I stood at the side of the bed and looked over her. How could I have not noticed? She’d been dragging her left foot around the house for weeks. She’d not been at work (working from home my arse).
