Mum must have known.
She was a strong woman—but I knew something was off when she asked me to come to the appointment with her.
Last time I was at a doctor’s appointment with my mum, I was probably twelve or thirteen years old and suspended from school for some reason or another.
Sometimes it was telling the teachers to get their coffee breath out of my face or throat-punching another student.
I wanted to do both things to this specialist, his act that was I’m sure was supposed to be supportive or at least empathetic, but ended up being so condescending that for the whole appointment, I was tempted to lunge across the desk—
But then Mum broke down.
And I took her hand.
I didn’t cry then, not in the office. Those tears came later on the bus home.
I think, looking back, I was shellshocked.
That was morning.
And I got home just past noon.
That meant everyone was awake and home.
The homeshare was large enough for one tenant to a room, and there were six bedrooms across three floors. One of those old, narrow townhouses too far outside of London to be an easy commute, but as close as I could get within my budget.
Now, everything changed.
One morning, one appointment—
And I was certain I would soon be leaving this place I’ve called home this past year.
I stopped off in the downstairs bathroom, crammed and filthy with makeup smudges all over the sink, and a bin full of tampons and pads that I could smell oxidising.
I rinsed my face clean of tears and raindrops, and as I patted the handtowels from the fresh basket along my hollow cheeks, I only saw my mum in the mirror, looking back at me with wet, blue eyes.
She wanted to be alone.
Needed to rest, she told me.
And so I watched her step on the south-bound train—and the doors shut.
Maybe I should have gone with her, fought harder, but that look in her eyes, sharp blue just like mine, was exhausted. More than physically, more than mentally—she was spiritually done.
So I had to let her go.
I wished I didn’t.
The house was full, but more than that, it had that Saturday vibe. Music wisped out of open doors, it followed me through the hallway, then into the kitchen, where sticky jugs of cocktails were strewn about the dining table.
I tossed my bag onto the counter.
And for a long while, I stared at the dishes piled in the sink.
I should have done something.
Called someone.
Eaten something.
