There’s talk of placing me with a foster-family.
I phone my mother in tears and she responds: ‘Come back, your coffee’s waiting.’
She couldn’t just say ‘I’m waiting’. My mother hid herself behind stock phrases. Her coffee – hot, strong, and always ready – was given as if it came from her own body. It was her attention, her warmth; it was my mother.
I came back, after six months at the hotel.
When my mother opened the door she opened her lips too, giving me a wide, unfamiliar smile.
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