Mum And Daughter Quotes

Actually, Justina, I didn't just ring you to chat about what an undead murderer I was...right, degenerate whore as well. Did I ever tell you my mum was one? No? Oh, blimey, I come from a long line of whores, in fact I called to give you the good news. I asked you daughter to marry me. Now, do you want me to call you Mum straightaway, or wait until after the wedding?

Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I’ll find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don’t – well, I think I’ve cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don’t know that they’ve got a daughter, you see.

I watch as my mum approaches and throws her arms around Jesse. "Jesse Ward, I love you," she says in his ear, as he holds her with one arm, "But please remove those handcuffs from my daughter.

living with a teenage daughter is like living with the Taliban a mum is not allowed to laugh, sing, dance or wear short skirts

Talaith leaned forward, studied her youngest daughter. “You think you’re evil?” “Pure evil,” Izzy clarified, which got her a rather vicious glare from Rhi. An expression Dagmar had never thought the young, perpetually smiling or sobbing girl was capable of. “Why would you think you’re evil?” “It’s a feeling I have.” “No. Someone told her.” Rhi glowered at her sister. “I never said that.” “You didn’t have to,” Izzy shot back. “I know you.” “Well, who told her that?” Talaith demanded. And, as one, they all turned and looked at Gwenvael. He blinked, sat up straight. “I would never say such a thing to my dear sweet niece!” “You said it to me,” Talwyn snapped. “That’s because you’re not my dear sweet niece. You’re the rude little cow who threw a knife at my head.” “I wasn’t aiming for you. I was aiming for Mum.” “She’s right,” Annwyl admitted. “I just ducked behind you.” She shrugged. “Sorry.

If you remember yourself, you will remember me. I am always a part of you. I am your mother.

Actually, Justina, I didn't just ring you to chat about what an undead murderer I was...right, degenerate whore as well. Did I ever tell you my mum was one? No? Oh, blimey, I come from a long line of whores, in fact..." I sucked in a breath as Bones divulged yet another tidbit about his past to my mother, who must be frothing at the mouth by now. "...called to give you the good news. I asked your daughter to marry me and she accepted. Congratulations, I will officially be your son-in-law. Now, do you want me to call you Mum straightaway, or wait until after the wedding?" I flew through the air in a dive that finally tackled him, wrenching the phone away. Bones was laughing so hard, he had to breathe to get it all out. "Mom? Are you there? Mom...?" "You might want to give her a moment, Kitten. I believe she fainted.

I cannot imagine how much I must’ve suffered in my previous lives to be fortunate enough to have parents like you in this life.

Ah, Belikov," said Abe, shaking Dimitri's hand. "I'd been hoping we'd run into each other. I'd really like to get to know you better. Maybe we can set aside some time to talk, learn more about life, love, et cetera. Do you like to hunt? You seem like a hunting man. That's what we should do sometime. I know a great spot in the woods. Far, far away. We could make a day of it. I've certainly got a lot of question to ask you. A lot of things I'd like to tell you." I shot a panicked look at my mother, silently begging her to stop this. Abe had spent a good deal of time talking to Adrian when we dated, explaining in vivid and gruesome detail exactly how Abe expected his daughter to be treated. I did not want Abe taking Dimitri off alone into the wilderness, especially if firearms were involved. "Actually," said my mum casually."I'd like to come along. I also have a number of questions-especially about when you two were back at St. Vladimir's." "Don't you guys have somewhere to be?" I asked hastily. "We're about to start." That, at least, was true. Nearly everyone was in formation, and the crowd was quieting. "of course," said Abe. To my astonishment, he brushed a kiss over my forehead before stepping away. "I'm glad you're back." Then, with a wink, he said to Dimitri:"Looking forward to our chat." "Run," I said when they were gone. "If you slip out now, maybe they won't notice. Go back to Siberia.

Mum puts her hand on Elsa's hand, and inhales deeply from the point where they are touching, as if trying to fill her lungs with Elsa. As mums do with daughters who grow up too fast.

mum's dress. mum loved big parties. she loved dressing up and champagne bubbles tickling her nose, and dancing with her arms above her head, shoes thrown to the edges of the dance floor, and shouting inane happy things at people.

She's my best friend—she's everything to me. It's always just been me and her against the world.

Whosoever does not believe in the existence of a sixth sense has clearly not regarded their own mother. How it is they know all they know about you, even those secrets you locked away so tightly in the most hidden compartments of your heart, remains one of the great mysteries of the world. And they don't just know—they know instantly.

For all her flaws, my mum never raised me with dysfunctional attitudes to food or made me think I was greedy or not thin enough. She was always clear she disliked me for me.

I’ve pinkie-promised myself that I’d see everything my mum wanted to but couldn’t, and what better way for her to see it than through the eyes of her grown-up (still chubby) daughter living the best life in the fucking world?

Jess actually dreaded having a boyfriend, because of having to tell her mum. Perhaps she would just avoid it until her mum eighty or something and in an old-people's home, and then Jess, who would by then be about fifty, would drop by and casually remark, "Oh, by the way, Mum, I've got a boyfriend." And even then her mum would probebly hurtle out of her wheelchair and smack her hard across the face, crying "You trash! You whore! Get outta my house--I mean, my room!" It was hard sometimes, being the daughter of a radical feminist who hated men.

Mum looks hesitant. As mums get when they are accustomed to being able to predict their daughters’ questions, and then suddenly find they were wrong about that. Elsa shrugs.

Give others a chance to talk.... A lovely little girl was holding two apples with both hands.Her mum came in and softly asked her little daughter with a smile: my sweetie, could you give your mum one of your two apples? The girl looked up at her mum for some seconds, then she suddenly took a quick bite on one apple, and then quickly on the other. The mum felt the smile on her face freeze. She tried hard not to reveal her disappointment. Then the little girl handed one of her bitten apples to her mum, and said: mummy, here you are.This is the sweeter one. No matter who you are, how experienced you are, and how knowledgeable you think you are, always delay judgement. Give others the privilege to explain themselves. What you see may not be the reality. Never conclude for others.

There was a line there, firmly drawn, between friend and Mum, and if a situation ever neared that line, she was always going to come down on the Mum side. But up until that line, she could be — and was, and is — both.

How do you find a name?" "In this case, on a shampoo bottle. It's one of the ingredients; Sodium Laureth Sulphate. He thought it was a beautiful word and sounded like a name." "He's right." "Mum didn't think so. He swears he told her at the time where it came from, and maybe he did, but she was too ill to remember. I was seven when she found out, and then she hit the roof. 'You named our daughter after a chemical!' That kind of thing." "I still think it's a cool name," said Sam, and I could hear the smile in his voice. It was a soft voice, too. I liked it. "And very beautiful," he added. "Thank you," I said, feeling a little warm inside. "And that's why I have such a boring name," said Benjamin. "Oh, hey," said Sam. "That's a cool name, too." "No, it's not," said Benjamin. "There are two Bens in my class. Mum said she was going to choose my name when I was born. Dad wasn't allowed. So I got a boring name. But that's why Stan's called Stan." "Because you wanted him to have a boring name, too?" "Stan's not a boring name. It's short for Stannous." "Stannous?" "Stannous Chloride," I said. "It's a chemical. It was on a tube of toothpaste." Sam laughed. "Mum hit the roof," said Benjamin, proudly.

Do you miss him?' I take a moment to consider the question, my fingers fiddling with the white pegs in the little tray on my lap. 'I think I miss the idea of him. I don't miss his rules or the yelling or the way he'd belittle us. I don't miss his drinking or the rages, but I miss having a dad, you know?' 'What about your mum?' I smile sadly. 'We talk, but only occasionally. She left Dad when I was little, which I totally get. He isn't the easiest person to live with...

Because she's my mum Ryan. She wasn't a very good one, she was a horrible one in fact. But she is all I have left and I don't want to end up like her. I want to be a good person; I want to continue to care about others even when they don't deserve it.

Jen's Mum Will Write Jen's mum writes advertising copy. She specializes in white goods: washing machines, dryers, fridges, freezers, dishwashers. She hates these appliances hulking in corners, power-hungry and fractious. One day, she will have a wood stove, and she'll write about things that matter- she will write about birth and death, about love and the absence of love, about fathers and children, about mothers and daughters, about lovers and friends. She'll write about the whole goddamn wonderful, awful business of loving and being loved

About two months after this photo was taken I was born and my mum died - clean swap. Caring about someone I never knew doesn't make sense, but that's how it is. This photo means a lot. There must be some invisible mother-daughter wiring that runs from her image in a straight line to my heart.

The survivor movements were also challenging the notion of a dysfunctional family as the cause and culture of abuse, rather than being one of the many places where abuse nested. This notion, which in the 1990s and early 1980s was the dominant understanding of professionals characterised the sex abuser as a pathetic person who had been denied sex and warmth by his wife, who in turn denied warmth to her daughters. Out of this dysfunctional triad grew the far-too-cosy incest dyad. Simply diagnosed, relying on the signs: alcoholic father, cold distant mother, provocative daughter. Simply resolved, because everyone would want to stop, to return to the functioning family where mum and dad had sex and daughter concentrated on her exams. Professionals really believed for a while that sex offenders would want to stop what they were doing. They thought if abuse were decriminalised, abusers would seek help. The survivors knew different. P5

I read somewhere that spiders can spin silk strong enough to hold the weight of a thousand trucks. I tried to imagine those lines of silver, thinner than air, stronger than steel. Sometimes I think that a hundred webs, invisible gossamers, connect Gracie and me. They coat our bodies, tie our limbs together, link our hearts. They can stretch across cities, countries – even anger. Unbreakable. I felt them that first time I watched her play soccer. She needed to win so badly. I watched a new Gracie crack out of her cocoon that day. Grey, moth-like, she seemed covered in a dust that let her take to the air. Fly. They’re beautiful things, moths, with their dark patterned wings hooking on wind to push them forward. You have to be careful with them, though. Brush them just lightly, and they can’t fly anymore.

A Mother's Day is a son's or daughter's happy life.

Mum and Dad didn’t hear the tears I cried at night; they didn’t see me at all after that. I became the invisible daughter.

The thought of having a relationship with my kids like the one I have with my mum, a scam on both sides, makes me want to vomit.

Trust me, your daughter is all right. She’s a brave one.” “Being brave isn’t the same as being okay,” my mum said quietly.

One woman sent me on a letter written to her by her daughter, and the young girl's words are a remarkable statement about artistic creation as an infinitely versatile and subtle form of communication: '...How many words does a person know?' she asks her mother. 'How many does he use in his everyday vocabulary? One hundred, two, three? We wrap our feelings up in words, try to express in words sorrow and joy and any sort of emotion, the very things that can't in fact be expressed. Romeo uttered beautiful words to Juliet, vivid, expressive words, but they surely didn't say even half of what made his heart feel as if it was ready to jump out of his chest, and stopped him breathing, and made Juliet forget everything except her love? There's another kind of language, another form of communication: by means of feeling, and images. That is the contact that stops people being separated from each other, that brings down barriers. Will, feeling, emotion—these remove obstacles from between people who otherwise stand on opposite sides of a mirror, on opposite sides of a door.. The frames of the screen move out, and the world which used to be partitioned off comes into us, becomes something real... And this doesn't happen through little Audrey, it's Tarkovsky himself addressing the audience directly, as they sit on the other side of the screen. There's no death, there is immortality. Time is one and undivided, as it says in one of the poems. "At the table are great-grandfathers and grandchildren.." Actually Mum, I've taken the film entirely from an emotional angle, but I'm sure there could be a different way of looking at it. What about you? Do write and tell me please..

Was that what it meant to be a daughter? To have hair that smelled of your mother? To use the same soap? Or was it a shared passion, a shared frustration? Meg had never wanted to kneel in the dirt and plant bulbs like her mum; she longed to be considered - not with kindness, but with curiosity, with regard for her thoughts, with respect for her words. Was that what the mess on the floor was? Evidence of a curious mind? Fragments of frustration? An effort to understand and explain? Were Meg’s longings akin to Esme and was that what it meant to be a daughter?

I can’t take all the credit though because as all this was going on, Robyn, my eldest daughter, was tugging at my jacket loudly and frantically repeating, ‘Mum, Mum! Don’t hurt him, Mum! Don’t hurt him.

Mum has had an anxious daughter for sixteen years and she still doesn't seem to get the concept of little victories. The spending an evening where I wasn't feeling sick every time someone asked me a question is actually a really big deal [...] There's no such thing as getting your hopes up if you're anxious. Little victories are everything in a world where worst-case scenarios are on an endless loop in your head.

Do you know who we are Mum?” And at that moment I just look into her blue planets for eyes, and she says, “We are Daughters of Song, Mama.” And at that I jump up with new life, pick her up, and say, “Now let's go play”_____

She takes in the sight of a cake with thick frosting, covered in edible silver stars. I call it Princess Cake, and little girls love it. One of my regular mums says it is magic; it keeps her daughter quiet for at least twenty minutes.

Emma's mid-twenties had brought a second adolescence even more self-absorbed and doom-laden than the first one. 'Why don't you just come home, sweetheart?' her mum had said on the phone last night, using her quavering, concerned voice, as if her daughter had been abducted. 'Your room's still here. There's jobs at Debenhams' - and for the first time she had been tempted. Once, she thought she could conquer London. She had imagined a whirl of literary salons, political engagement, larky parties, bittersweet romances conducted on Thames embankments. She had intended to form a band, make short films, write novels, but two years on slim volume of verse was no fatter, and nothing really good had happened to her since she'd been baton-charged at Poll Tax Riots.

I adhered to this strategy right up to Mum's death, sharing experiences that I probably should have kept to myself, telling tales of drug-taking and STDs over a cup of tea at the kitchen table, graduating to infertility and marriage breakdown as I got older. There was never any condemnation from Mum, although she did gasp and shake her head sometimes. Whenever my life collapsed – which was often – I'd move back in with her, and no matter my age or what I was up to, she always put a hot-water bottle in my bed at night. [...] Mum advised, supported and steered me through my many disasters. Whether I'd said something stupid to someone at a party, made a mistake at work, fallen out with a colleague, was lonely, applying for a job, in a difficult relationship or spiked with drugs at a nightclub, she helped me make sense of the situation and find a way forward.

Amma wanted her daughter to be free, feminist and powerful Later she took her on personal development courses for children to give her the confidence and articulacy to flourish in any setting Big mistake Mum, Yazz said at fourteen when she was pitching to go to Reading Music Festival with her friends, it would be to the detriment of my juvenile development if you curtailed my activities at this critical stage in my journey towards becoming the independent-minded and fully self-expressed adult you expect me to be, I mean, do you really want me rebelling against your old-fashioned rules by running away from the safety of my home to live on the streets and having to resort to prostitution to survive and thereafter drug addiction, crime, anorexia and abusive relationships with exploitative bastards twice my age before my early demise in a crack house? Amma fretted the whole weekend her little girl way away

I take a deep breath, give myself the time to truly think it through. There are moments I realize just how unconventional my relationship with Mum is. Moments I have to admit that she probably has sociopathic tendencies and simply chooses not to use her powers for excessive evil. And I am my mother’s daughter. “How

It was all so easy. My mum says it was denial. That I wanted life to pass me by, instead of standing there getting drenched in it like everyone else. She thought less of me now, that was hardly surprising. I thought less of her, too. We were standing on each side of a trench, measuring each other. Measuring each other with our eyes. Who was the stronger? Who was the weak? Who would come creeping in the night, sobbing and reaching out to be held?

You will need to stay calm as you witness the candy floss in your daughter’s smile harden into brittle bitchiness. You will need to muster a new resolve as your son’s fascination with Pokémon shifts to porn. You will have to recalibrate your mothering instinct to accommodate the notion that not only do your children poop and burp, they also masturbate, drink and smoke. As their bodies, brains and worlds rearrange themselves, you will need to do your own reshuffling. You will come to see that, though you gave them life, they’re the ones who’ve got a life. They’ve got 1700 friends on Facebook. They’ve got YouTube accounts (with hundreds of sub- scribers), endless social arrangements, concerts, Valentine’s Day dances and Halloween parties. What we have – if we’re lucky – is a ‘Thanks for the ride, Mum, don’t call me, I’ll call you,’ as they slam the car door and indicate we can run along now.

Mum has had an anxious daughter for sixteen years, and she still doesn’t seem to get the concept of little victories. That spending an evening where I wasn’t feeling sick every time someone asked me a question is actually a really big deal, and the fact that it might just be a one-off is the kind of thing I’m already worried about. There’s no such thing as getting your hopes up if you’re anxious. Little victories are everything in a world where worst-case scenarios are on an endless loop in your head.

What the fuck did you just say to me” she practically spits. Eden takes a deep breath and I see her straighten her shoulders, “I’m sorry my father didn’t hang around to help you mum and I’m sorry your parent’s didn’t support you either. But I have done nothing but love you since I was born, even though you’ve not done much to deserve my love; I do. But for years I have put up with all of your anger because I believed the words you spoke and I won’t do it any more mum. I will always love you, but enough is enough.

Do you care?" I ask. "Do you care that I have no skirt?" "At the moment, Tori, no. It's in the airing cupboard. It's just a bit crinkled." "Yeah, I found it. It's supposed to be a pleated skirt, Mum. Currently, there are no pleats." "Tori. I'm really busy." "But I don't have a skirt to wear to school." "Wear your other skirt then, for Christ's sake!" "I literally just told you, it's too sma-" "Tori! I really don't care!" O stop talking. I look at her. I wonder if I'll end up like her. Not caring whether my daughter has a skirt to wear to school.

A second later, Ron had snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she had dropped The Monster Book of Monsters on his foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron’s ankle. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hermione cried as Harry wrenched the book from Ron’s leg and retied it shut. “What are you doing with all those books anyway?” Ron asked, limping back to his bed. “Just trying to decide which ones to take with us,” said Hermione. “When we’re looking for the Horcruxes.” “Oh, of course,” said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library.” “Ha ha,” said Hermione, looking down at Spellman’s Syllabary. “I wonder…will we need to translate runes? It’s possible…I think we’d better take it, to be safe.” She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles and picked up Hogwarts, A History. “Listen,” said Harry. He had sat up straight. Ron and Hermione looked at him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance. “I know you said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you wanted to come with me,” Harry began. “Here he goes,” Ron said to Hermione, rolling his eyes. “As we knew he would,” she sighed, turning back to the books. “You know, I think I will take Hogwarts, A History. Even if we’re not going back there, I don’t think I’d feel right if I didn’t have it with--” “Listen!” said Harry again. “No, Harry, you listen,” said Hermione. “We’re coming with you. That was decided months ago--years, really.” “But--” “Shut up,” Ron advised him. “--are you sure you’ve thought this through?” Harry persisted. “Let’s see,” said Hermione, slamming Travels with Trolls onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look. “I’ve been packing for days, so we’re ready to leave at a moment’s notice, which for your information has included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to mention smuggling Mad-Eye’s whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under Ron’s mum’s nose.” “I’ve also modified my parents’ memories so that they’re convinced they’re really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life’s ambition is to move to Australia, which they have now done. That’s to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me--or you, because unfortunately, I’ve told them quite a bit about you. “Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I’ll find Mum and Dad and lifted the enchantment. If I don’t--well, I think I’ve cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don’t know that they’ve got a daughter, you see.” Hermione’s eyes were swimming with tears again. Ron got back off the bed, put his arm around her once more, and frowned at Harry as though reproaching him for lack of tact. Harry could not think of anything to say, not least because it was highly unusual for Ron to be teaching anyone else tact.

Now through her aching, Helen felt a flicker of peace as though Mum was there, placing a hand on Helen’s shoulder and saying, “Come now. The world is always a brighter place on a full stomach. Help me—it will go faster that way.” In the stillness of the kitchen they used to work, Helen’s light hair and Mum’s dark bent over the bowl. Mum would not prod or fill the silence with chatter, but used the recipe to call Helen back to herself. She would pop a currant into her daughter’s mouth, or gently instruct her to smell the cinnamon, and for Helen, the world would come into focus.

And if it snowed and snow covered the drive he took a spade and tossed it to one side. And always tucked his daughter up at night And slippered her the one time that she lied. And every week he tipped up half his wage. And what he didn't spend each week he saved. And praised his wife for every meal she made. And once, for laughing, punched her in the face. And for his mum he hired a private nurse. And every Sunday taxied her to church. And he blubbed when she went from bad to worse. And twice he lifted ten quid from her purse. Here's how they rated him when they looked back: sometimes he did this, sometimes he did that.

Homophobia and the closet are allies. Like an unhealthy co-dependent relationship they need each other to survive. One plays the victim living in fear and shame while the other plays the persecutor policing what is ‘normal’. The only way to dismantle homophobia is for every gay man and lesbian in the world to come out and live authentic lives. Once they realise how normal we are and see themselves in us….the controversy is over. It is interesting to think what would happen though....on a particularly pre-determined day that every single gay man and lesbian came out. Imagine the impact when, on that day, people all around the world suddenly discovered their bosses, mums, dads, daughters, sons, aunts, uncles, cousins, teachers, doctors, neighbours, colleagues, politicians, their favourite actors, celebrities and sports heroes, the people they loved and respected......were indeed gay. All stereotypes would immediately be broken.....just by the same single act of millions of people…..and at last there would no longer be need for secrecy. The closet would become the lounge room. How much healthier would we be emotionally and psychologically when we could all be ourselves doing life without the internal and societal negatives that have been attached to our sexual orientation.

How was she meant to let go ? Sometimes, instead of having a single daughter, it felt as if she were grieving the loss of hundreds. The baby that clung to her little finger. The toddler who squealed with delight at her first steps. The small girl who said "I love you" for the first time with no ceremony and without realising it almost broke Maggie's heart with joy. The teenager who broke down when she needed Mum one last time. It was like her daughter disappeared over and over again. All those incredible people who Maggie would never meet again, some of whom were remembered only by her. And she felt colossal loneliness at the realisation.

the thing is, if she and her father are going to have a healthy relationship into the future, it’s up to her to keep him in check because no one else is going to do it, he surrounds himself with what Mum calls his ‘court sycophants’, the people Yazz meets at his parties, mainly famous white people off the telly who see him as an honorary one of them she’s almost got there with Mum, although it was a hard slog, especially when she was fourteen or fifteen and Mum was prone to hysteria when she didn’t get her own way now she knows better than to try to control or contradict her daughter all Yazz needs to say these days is, don’t sass me, Mumsy! and she shuts up Dad’s on that learning curve too he’ll thank her in the end

Elsa and Mum and the letter share the silence for seconds and eternities and hummingbird wingbeats. Then Mum touches Elsa’s hand and tries to make the question sound as if it’s not so terribly important, just something she just thought of spontaneously: “What do you have from me?” Elsa stands in silence. Mum looks despondent. “I was just, well, you know. You said you had inherited certain things from your grandmother and from your father, and I was just thinking, you know . . .” She goes silent. Ashamed of herself as mothers are when they realize they have passed that point in life when they want more from their daughters than their daughters want from them. And Elsa puts her hands over Mum’s cheeks and says mildly: “Just everything else, Mum. I just have everything else from you.

Look Jane!” Brenda nudged her daughter. “Look who’s over there!” “Damn!” Jane had smudged the fingernail she’d been painting. A tiny frown of exasperation marred her pretty face. Then she brightened as she saw him – Richard from accounts, jostling at the bar with the rest of the lunchtime crowd. “What’s he doing here?” she wondered aloud. “Wouldn’t have thought this was his scene.” “Don’t be silly!” Brenda admonished. “It’s a hot day. Lots of people fancy a cold lager with their lunch. It’s perfectly natural.” She sometimes despaired at her daughter’s lack of insight. How could such a pretty girl be so empty-headed? And when would Jane ever find a steady boyfriend? Brenda had high hopes for Richard in this direction. He was old enough to be a good influence; brilliantly clever; in line for promotion – he would be perfect for Jane. “Call him over, Mum!” Jane suggested excitedly.

Just don’t say anything at all, Hennessy told herself, but she’d never been good at listening to advice, even her own. “Dear old mum. What did she teach me? Mmm…Don’t leave cigarettes burning on the piano, never mix pills on a school night, stay single, die young.” Machkowsky’s mouth hardened; she didn’t look up from the art. She said, “I always wondered what it must have been like to be her daughter. So she was no different at home, then?” Hennessy hesitated. “I had hoped her behavior was more of an act,” Machkowsky said. “Performance art. I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.” It was unexpectedly jarring to be seen. Hennessy had not come here to be known. She had not come here for sympathy from a stranger, especially not for a childhood she’d thought only looked appalling from the inside. Did it matter, to know that someone had thought about her in her youthful suffering? She would have liked the answer to be no. It was simpler. But the way her breath felt all tangled up in her throat told her the answer was yes. It mattered.

The taxi driver has told me his entire life story for only 97 kroner, but from his story I gather what really happened: he got drunk last night and had a hangover this morning. He was about to call in sick but then remembered all his unpaid bills and went to work anyway. He quit working at sea and went ashore because he couldn’t keep his job. When he was no longer able to control his drinking, he was urged to quit his job as a fireman and now he earns a living driving a taxi. He has never been close to his mum but now that she doesn’t have much time left, he tries to show that he’s a good son. His wife left him. He gives money to his daughter in order to keep in touch with her … He wants to be heard. He wants to exist. He tries to avoid being lonely by talking about himself. If he had bothered to ask me, I would have told him that I just witnessed a child’s first breath, but I don’t give a fuck that he didn’t ask. Today, I resist the temptation to criticise anybody, and decide to show patience instead. ‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile. ‘Same to you. Have a nice day,’ he answers.

they were both shocked, if not positively alarmed, by an interruption to their celebration. The door opened. ‘Sister, can she be seen?’ It was Mr Wyburd in something too loud for a whisper and less than his usual grammar. ‘The princess has arrived. Her daughter.’ As if this were not enough, a second figure was pushing rustling past the one at the door: for Mrs Hunter it was sound perfume joy despair; whereas Sister Badgery saw a tall thin hatless woman, somewhere around fifty (to be on the kind side) her dress unsurprising except for its simplicity and the pearls bounding about around her neck, and on her bosom, as she half ran half staggered. A princess shouldn’t run, the nurse recovered herself enough to disapprove; and she shouldn’t have a horse face. But Dorothy floundered, imperviously, on. ‘O mon Dieu, aidez-moi !’ she gasped, before assuming another of her selves, or voices, to utter, ‘Mother!’ and lower, ‘Mum!’ Then, by act of special grace, a blind was drawn over the expression the intruder was wearing for this old mummy propped up in bed, a thermometer sticking out of its mouth; if life were present, it was the life generated by jewels with which the rigid claws were loaded.

ALBUS It’s going to be okay, you know that, Mum? GINNY I know it is. Or I hope I do. I just – don’t want to see him like that. The man I love shrouded in the man I hate. ALBUS sits beside his mum. ALBUS I liked her, Mum. You know that? I really liked her. Delphi. And she was – Voldemort’s daughter? GINNY That’s what they’re good at, Albus – catching innocents in their web. ALBUS This is all my fault. GINNY takes ALBUS in her arms. GINNY How funny. Your dad seems to think it’s all his. Strange pair, you are. SCORPIUS hisses from the door, interrupting them. SCORPIUS That’s her. That’s her. She’s seen him.

For a few awful, shameful seconds, I seriously contemplate dashing through the gate and joining the line at Passport Control. It’s moving fairly quickly; in the minutes it will take Mum to recover any shreds of composure, I’ll be into Security, where if she tries to follow me, she’ll be detained by the guards. I’m a bad daughter even to think that. A terrible daughter. Not only am I leaving my mother on her own for two whole months, I’m fantasizing about running away from her and possibly getting her arrested.

Clare.’ ‘What?’ asked Sebastian. ‘Just Clare? Why did they want . . .?’ Anna put her hand up to silence him. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Carry on.’ ‘So, Clare went and they gave her a letter. Basically, it seems that there’s a chance that this friend of Mum’s might be her father.’ Miriam wasn’t sure that she’d heard her properly. ‘What? What did you just say?’ ‘Miriam. Please,’ said Anna in exasperation. ‘Just let me get to the end of it. So this bloke has said that Clare will inherit all his stuff if she can prove that she’s his daughter. She has to do a DNA test.’ Sebastian whistled. ‘Bloody hell. So that means . . .’ He crinkled his brow as he thought through the consequences of what Anna had just said. ‘That means,’ said Miriam, ‘that either he’s a lying toe-rag or Mum had an affair.’ Miriam brought an image of their mother into her mind. She was old, grey-haired, as she remembered her last. She dug deeper into her

am forty again, laundering, my children kicking around my feet. A burden it felt, all those requests to be picked up when there were so many tasks to do. What I would give now though, to do it all again, to hear my daughter, two years old, say, Mum, please.

Mum gets to her feet and slides around until she’s mostly blocking me. “If that’s how you feel is appropriate to speak to my daughter, you won’t be speaking to her at all,” she informs him frostily. “Your partner can deal with us, while you back the hell away.” As the officer stumbles through an apology, Corgi leans over to tap my knee. “Keep learning from your mama, Blue Girl,” he whispers. “Together you two could scare the world into behaving right.” I

That’s why it’s impossible not to feel like I’ve lost something special as I hand my boarding pass over to the airline employee at the gate before making my way onto the plane. But just as I’m strapping myself into my very expensively purchased seat beside Mum, I have another feeling too, and it’s a very strange one because I can’t know for sure if it’s justified, yet I still feel it, nevertheless. I have the feeling I might have just had a very lucky escape.

Years later, she still hadn’t forgiven him. ‘I’m doing what I can, Mum. A text once a week is more than he deserves.’ ‘At first yes, but not now. Not for many years now. He’s not that man any more, Julia, as your brothers have explained. I don’t want you to regret not getting to know him as he is now.’ ‘I don’t care who he is now. I text him and I let him buy me stuff. That’s all I can do. If I can ever forget some of those times… those hideous, horrible times, then maybe it will be different.’ ‘I wish you could. Not forget them, but perhaps forgive them. Therapy would help, darling, it really would.

Claire, yesterday you yelled at Nicholas for forgetting to take out the garbage. Do you remember what you said to him?’ ‘I said he has to take responsibility for some things around the house – which is the truth, Mum.’ ‘I’m not debating that but you ended your lecture with, “I don’t need another man giving me crap right now.”’ ‘I didn’t say that,’ I protested. ‘You did. You were angry and I am sure you didn’t mean it but I was going to talk to you about it today. You need to apologise to him. He is only a boy and not every man is Joel, Claire, not even the little men who share his genetics. Don’t alienate them because they happen to be boys. Love them into being wonderful men like your father.

Ian's 'cannot bear' was on a direct par with Son Andrew's statement, during his summer holidays, that he was 'desperate to get a job.'  'Desperate' was used interestingly here.  'Desperate to get a job' comprised lying in bed until about 11.30 and then stumbling about for a bit before embarking on a fruitless amble around the immediate locale with several of his mates, calling into shops on the off-chance and no doubt frightening the proprietors rigid with their gangling six foot clumsiness, their menacing inarticulacy, and their shuffling gait of the young homeless.  'Give us ten pounds Mum, there are no jobs to be had anywhere.' 'Anywhere' in this situation was also an interesting variation on received meaning.  Anywhere, apparently, could also mean 'this small bit of London in which we live'.  Just to be fair, and not to imply that the sororiety was hanging back in the matter of the changing shape of the English language, Daughter Claire's linguistics were also interesting.  To pick one at random - 'it's doing my head in' - could be said of anything from the introduction to the household of cheaper shampoos, to the imposition of a five minute rule for the telephone - both of which were quite likely, in Daughter Claire's head-done-in state, to contrive the failure of all three of her A levels and a permanent place under a blanket outside Woolworths .

My mouth is dry by the time I am safely alone in my hotel room. I haven’t eaten lunch and I know that I should at least get myself a bottle of water and something small, but the letters demand to be read. It feels like an invasion of Julia’s privacy. It is an invasion – I know she hated the idea that I was so interested in every thought and feeling she had. ‘I don’t have to share everything with you, Mum.’ ‘You don’t but you used to.’ ‘Things change.’ ‘Oh, how they change,’ I mutter as I stare down at the stack of letters. I have purposefully not focused on the words beyond the greeting.

Mums are plants which spread their scent to love, heal and lead.

Dad, what was that soup you mentioned just now?" asked Koishi as she wiped the table down. "Kenoshiru, did you say?" "Chopped vegetables--- daikon, carrot, and so on--- deep-fried tofu, and konnyaku, simmered in kombu stock. Apparently the trick is to mix in something called jinda--- mashed soybeans, basically--- right at the end." "Why did you say that made her father a kind man?" asked Koishi as she made her way into the living room. "See, the snow's so deep in winter up there that they can't pick the traditional seven herbs of spring," replied Nagare, folding up his newspaper and following her. "So instead of making seven-herb porridge on the seventh of January like everyone else, they make kenoshiru soup. A huge pot of it, which they eat right through until the middle of January. Apparently the original idea was to give women a break from working in the kitchen all the time." "Hear that, Mum?" said Koishi, kneeling in front of the family altar. "Sounds like the real gentlemen are all up in Hirosaki." "Hey, we're even nicer in Kyoto. Kikuko knows that better than anyone." "You keep telling yourself that, Dad," said Koishi, her eyes opening slightly as she joined her hands together and prayed.

And so, in the end, it had been no one’s fault. No one’s fault at all. It wasn’t Lorelei’s parents’ fault, or the fault of the man who’d raped her mother, or of God above for taking away their baby daughter before she’d drawn her first breath. It wasn’t Rory’s fault, it wasn’t Bethan’s fault, it wasn’t Colin’s fault. It certainly wasn’t Lorelei’s fault. (“Poor, poor Mum, all those years, carrying that burden alone.”) It was life. One of those things. Somewhere along the line a seed had been sown in Rhys’s little heart, maybe even in the womb, and that seed had grown into something completely unconnected to any

My arms ached for a cuddle, my whole body felt empty. I was desperate for that one bit of physical contact with her, the daughter I’d carried around in my body, the one I’d talked to in the womb, the precious person I’d fallen in love with the moment she arrived. The one I’d worried over, cried over, sung to and clung to

After reliving my experiences whilst writing this I have to think that there are other forces in this world that cannot be seen by the human eye. Loosing my Mom at a young age has also changed my perspective on the after life. However I will point out I am not a religious person or have any belief system. I would like to think/hope that after we leave this world there is something more after. Where the sick are no longer in pain and are watching over us keeping us safe. My daughter asks a lot of questions as to where my Mum has gone. I like to tell her that she is in the stars looking down on us everyday. I hope I'm right.

Offers of partial nudity are nothing though to Lloyd. He had turned up to a job where the whole family were naturists. As he sat there with mum, dad and eighteen year old daughter all sitting in the buff, happily chatting away to him and sipping tea, he told me that he felt a little overdressed. “I felt like lobbing my knob out just to get a little bit of empathy going with them,” he reported. His empathy, however, quickly

What's this one, Mum? There's no return address, and there's like, five stamps on it. Who's it from?" Leaning forward to get a closer look at the stamps, I didn't notice the fleeting look of immense sadness pass over her face. "Oh it's nothing, darling." I raised my eyebrow at her. She sighed. "An overseas friend. You wouldn't know her." And before I could ask what 'her' name was, Mum had left the room.

Is this the first time you see her swim?” Shla’s mum asked me quietly. She was sitting right next to me, it was impossible for her to miss my tears. “Yes.” “Ah,” she said, she kept watching the pool for a few beats. “Do you need to go?” “What?” I said, confused besides upset. She turned to me, her blue eyes hard as flint. “Do you need to go?” I was trembling slightly, but I was angry, too. What right did she have to tell me not to be upset when the person I loved had lost so much? “No.” “Then you need to look back,” she said, and turned away from me. I followed her gaze to the pool and felt my heart stutter when I caught Shla pushing off the opposite wall once again. I had missed her going up to the poolside on her clutches because her mum had been practically gushing about the race and her daughter’s recovery and how she was going to win despite all odds -- everybody else in the pool was able-bodied. I could see her right leg for a moment, but it wasn’t like the other leg couldn’t have been underwater or something. I forced myself not to look away this time: She was incredibly beautiful, and after a few strokes, as captivating as any animal in its element, body blending with the water that surrounded her like it didn’t recognize it as a separate substance. And then she reached our side and turned, upside down for a few endless seconds to switch directions. Her left leg ended below the round bone of her knee like someone had photoshopped reality to erase the rest of it. I blinked and she was back in the water, more competent in it than I had ever felt on solid ground with full use of all my limbs.

loved them and they were the new kids on the block. I called my mum. ‘Are you sitting down?

Her mum is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, when Summer exits. “Gage left from here a few minutes ago,” she says, tone neutral. “His hair was ruffled.” She gestures with her hand above her head. The haze Gage left Summer in vanishes. She frowns. Her mum sighs and steps forward. Smooths her daughter’s hair. “If he hurts you,” she says in a mild tone, “I’ll kill him.

your mum for a weekend or overnight.

Mr John Harris?’ I asked, stepping back involuntarily half a step, intimidated by his height and unfriendly gaze. ‘I’m not interested in your vision of my salvation or in the answer to whether God is love,’ he hissed irritably. ‘No! No! It’s not that!’ I stammered, taken aback by his hostile demeanour. ‘I don’t want the Avon catalogue either,’ he added, ready to slam the door in my face. ‘But sir! I’m Lucinda Blackbird, Maya’s daughter,’ I hurriedly blurted out, instinctively grabbing onto the door handle. ‘My mum asked me to deliver this letter to you.

On a good day, if you asked me to describe myself, I’d say I’m a thirty-six-year-old, happily married mum of three, and I’d stand by that, that’s a nice description, right? On a bad day, I’d say I’m an emotionally exhausted mess of a woman, who is hanging on by a thin thread every single day trying to be a good mother, wife, friend, daughter and colleague with a social life of her own, a successful career and a body that I most definitely have ‘let go’.

I go to the graveyard. My mum is there. My little daughter. She died of typhus in the war. We brought her to the graveyard, buried her, and just then the sun came out from behind the clouds. It was shining so brightly I felt like going back and unburying her.

Don't forget,' Papa had told his daughters, 'you are of earth and water. Both of you. Also of love. Our love.' And then he'd pulled Mum to him so tightly that she'd blushed and swatted him away.

There was no point clinging to something that wasn't really yours. Mom was the only permanent thing in my life, the only thing that mattered.

At last Stuart looked away from Helen and back to the piano as he picked up on Helen’s cue. In the Mood filled the small living room the way fragrance fills a garden after rain. Helen felt almost tipsy, perhaps from the music or the look Stuart had given her, or because people so rarely dance without being tipsy. Lyric bounced on Helen’s hip, the girl’s thin legs bopping against Helen’s body. Then as Helen swung and spun the child over the rug, the most remarkable thing happened. It started like a freshly sprung leak, then the moment before it came, Helen saw it in Lyric’s eyes. The leak busted, a water main of laughter bursting and arching into the room. Lyric’s laugh was the most beautiful sound Helen had ever heard. Her first thought was that Mum had been right—there is magic on this earth, and at last Helen had found it, hiding, inside this little girl. To Helen, it felt as though she'd spent so many days in the cold of winter, and was now hearing the birds return.

Mothers and daughters . . . their story can be complicated . . . but it can also turn out to have a happy ending. This tag line from Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel could also be a comment on my relationship with my own mum.

If I spoke to my mum about a friend sending their daughter to boarding school, her response would be, ‘Poor cow, how old is she?’ I would reply, ‘She’s seven,’ then my mum would respond with, ‘Wicked bastards, sending their kids away. If you don’t wanna look after ’em, don’t have ’em.’ Then my dad would hear from another room and shout, ‘I ain’t having him come round this house, ’orrible bastard!

Smedley would fall victim to the same fate. Louise looked away as her mind played tricks on her – the memory of Victoria’s broken body on the rocks, replaced by a vision of Emily in the same situation. She hurried down the stone pathway as if she could outrun the image. She was breathless by the time she reached the bottom. Getting her breath back, she ordered a take-away coffee from the small café. Paul called as she walked across the gravel car park. She let her phone ring until she reached the car, answering it as she leant against the driver’s door. ‘Paul.’ ‘Was it your idea to let Mum and Dad take Emily?’ he said, by way of greeting. Louise considered hanging up. There was no talking to him when he was like this but she was so agitated at the moment that she welcomed the ensuing argument. ‘We could have let her sleep on the streets if that would have made you happier?’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous. They had no right to take her.’ ‘Can you even hear yourself, Paul? You were too drunk to collect your daughter from school. Too drunk. Dad couldn’t even rouse you when he went to see you. Can’t you understand that?’ The line went silent and she was about to hang up when Paul said, ‘I made a mistake.

In other words, the queen intended to make her daughters suffer. What better way than withdrawing into isolation to lick her wounds? Thanks, mum.

call him Dad and it felt like the worst kind of betrayal.’ ‘How old were you?’ I ask. ‘Seven, when he died. Probably eight when Tony came on the scene. And he had this daughter, Lou, who was a couple of years older than me. His wife had died, too, so they were both single parents. I can understand, now, that they took comfort from each other, but at the time, I was so angry. It felt like Mum was choosing him over me, and over Dad. Plus he wasn’t very nice to me, never wanted to get involved with anything I was doing. I’ve just… never really been able to forgive them for it.’ ‘So once you were grown up, you cut them out of your life?’ ‘There was never a conscious decision to do that. But while Lou lived with them until she was in her early twenties, I went to university and never moved back. I’d see them now and again, but Tony and I just don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things and every time I’d see them, it was like Mum had moved slightly more towards his way of thinking. We just didn’t seem to have much in common

After she qualified, she got a job at a local school and her new teacher’s salary meant we could move to a bigger house. That work ethic and exceptional drive to get what she desired stuck with me. I absorbed that tenaciousness, that determination. Mum passed all of those qualities down to her daughters and led by example. But I also struggled with how work took so much of her time. I missed her.

You’re just like Mum, do you know that? It’s as though you’ve turned into her. Changing the narrative to whatever story suits your own conscience best. Turning a blind eye to anything that makes you look like a lousy daughter. I did what needed doing.

I will declare you no longer my daughter before the entire school. Love Mum

Her mum said there was no crisis so large that you forgot your manners

A woman’s relationship with her father will have a profound impact on all her future relationships with men. The fatherless daughter lacks a template. Fatherless daughters are more likely to be promiscuous—so GREAT, thanks Mum, I’m going to be a slut!!!!!!!!!! —Entry in Ellen O’Farrell’s diary, written a week before her fifteenth birthday

Come here; let me look at you.” Mum gestured imperiously, and after a moment’s hesitation, Shinobu bent down so that she could cup his face in her small, delicate fingers. She stared up at him, dark gaze piercing. He stayed still, but behind his back I saw his hands find each other and his fingers lace together, as if it was an effort not to fidget. I didn’t blame him.   “Rachel also says that you helped save her and did a lot of other heroic things. I think you must have a great deal of character to have survived everything that’s happened to you, Shinobu, and I’m very grateful for all that you’ve done for my family. But I’m fully aware that you’ve been hanging out in my house with my underage daughter completely unsupervised the whole time I’ve been gone. I will be keeping my eye on you from now on.”   Shinobu nodded respectfully, not moving out of my mother’s grasp. I couldn’t stand it.   “Mum! Shinobu’s been a − a perfect gentleman!”   “And I was there at least some of the time,” my father put in.   “There is no such thing as a perfect gentleman, Mio. And you don’t count, Takashi. You can never tell when Mio’s lying about anything.” She fixed her eyes back on Shinobu. “I’m not saying that I don't approve. But if you’re the sort of young man that I want for my daughter – and I think you are – you won’t have a problem with me looking out for her. When this mess is sorted out, we can get to know each other properly.”   Shinobu nodded again. Mum smiled at him and slid her hands down to pat his shoulders, and he smiled back, his expression a little dazed. Damn. Dazzled by Mum Power.   “‘This mess’ being … the imminent apocalypse?” my dad asked, apparently unable to leave well enough alone.   Mum ignored his tone magnificently. “Yes, that. Now, could anyone else murder a sandwich and a cup of tea? Because I’ve had a heck of a day.”   Jack and Hikaru, who’d retreated to the till area with Ebisu during the family drama, crept out. Jack raised her hand. “I’m starving.”   “Me too,” Hikaru said.   “Ah, the appetites of the young,” Ebisu said, smiling serenely as he limped towards my mother and offered her his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Yamato. You are almost exactly as I had imagined. Let’s go upstairs to my flat and see what we can find to eat, yes?”   “You might want to put me in charge of that,” my dad said, hurrying after them. “She’s a terrible cook.”   “Stuff it,” my mum retorted as Ebisu led her away. “I’m still not talking to you.”   And just like that, our motley crew had another member. My mum.   Sweet baby Jebus, how did this happen?

I know women have suffered throughout time. I would not want my daughter to go through that. I think it is time we stopped it, I try not to contribute to women’s suffering. Dad does too. He said I should treat women the way I would want to be treated. But Mum is too Christian. Apparently, God created Adam from earth, but Eve was made from Adam’s rib. To her how can a rib be equal to a whole person?

The drinking became a little more of a problem when I went to university. My parents had never been particularly present while I was growing up, so one might presume if I was going to go off the rails, why not do it at home, but I saved it for when I went away. I was enough of a disappointment to my father. I didn’t need to give him yet another excuse to help me understand I was not the daughter he wanted. My mother had left her native America when she fell in love with my dad while working for a year as an au pair in Gerrards Cross. She seemed happy when I was very young, then spent most of my teenage years in what I have always thought must have been, albeit undiagnosed a deep, and possibly clinical, depression. I can understand why. What I couldn’t understand is how she ever ended up with my father in the first place. He was handsome, and I suppose he must have been charming when they were young, but he was so damned difficult, I used to think, even when I was young, that we’d all be much happier if they got a divorce. I would sit with friends who would be in floods of tears because their mother had just found out their father had been having an affair, or their parents had decided they hated each other, or whatever the myriad of reasons are that drive people apart, and these friends would be crying at the terrible fear of their families breaking up, and all I could think was: I wish my parents would get divorced. It seemed to me that if ever there were two people on the planet who should not have been together, it was my parents. My mother is laid-back, funny, kind. She’s comfortable in her skin and has the easy laugh you expect from all Americans. She was brought up in New York, but her parents died very young, after which she went to live with her Aunt Judith. I never knew Aunt Judith, but everything about those days sounds idyllic, especially her summers in Nantucket. You look at pictures of my mum from those days and she was in flowing, hippie-ish clothes, always smiling. She had long, silky hair, and she looked happy and free. In sharp contrast to the pictures of her with my dad, even in those early days, when they were newlyweds, supposedly the happiest time of a relationship. He insisted she wear buttoned-up suits, or twinsets and pearls. Her hair was elaborately coiffed. I remember the heated rollers she kept in the bathroom, twisting her hair up every morning, spraying it into tight submission, slicking lipstick on her lips, her feet sliding into Roger Vivier pumps. If my father was away, she left her hair long and loose, wrapping a scarf around her head. She’d wear long gypsy skirts with espadrilles or sandals. I loved her like that most of all. I used to think it was her clothing that changed her personality,

How many times, since she was just a child, had her and Mum hung clothes together here as Mum told her stories? Some real, some pretend, some Helen couldn’t quite tell the difference between. For decades Mum insisted that as a child a true mermaid had been her friend. The mergirl had gotten injured by a fallen rock near Mum’s home, and she claimed to have helped the creature back to health. When Helen was small she accepted the tale as truth, but when she grew and dropped her belief in other fairy tales Mum would insist this was different. “Her tail felt smooth when I would slide my fingers down it, but the scales were sharp if I slid my palm up. I don’t have to pretend it’s true or convince you. I held magic in my hands. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time I realized I had.” “But there’s no such thing as mermaids and magic,” Helen had refuted once. Mum had lowered herself to meet Helen’s eyes. “Oh, there’s magic in this world. Do you think that just because you can explain something that makes it not magic anymore? How a wildflower grows is magic. The first snow of winter? Absolutely. Stand on any theater’s stage and you can’t deny it’s there. Sit on any shore and you’ll always feel it.

Sarah, his fifteen-year-old daughter, supposedly at boarding school, a very expensive one, in the coronary area. It didn’t so much drain his resources as blast a hole through them – wide and unstoppable. He tried for composure. ‘Whatcha doing home, not half term already?’ ‘No. I got suspended.’ ‘What? What on earth for? Got to get me a drink.’ He poured a sensible measure of Glenlivet, then added to it, took a heavy slug and glanced at his daughter. She was in that eternal moment of preciousness between girl and woman. She loved and loathed her dad in equal measure. He looked closer, said: ‘Good grief, are those hooks in your lips?’ ‘It’s fashion, Dad.’ ‘Bloody painful, I’d say. Is that why you’re home?’ ‘Course not. Mum says not to tell you, I didn’t do nuffink.’ Roberts sighed: an ever-constant cloud of financial ruin hung over his head, just to teach her how to pronounce ‘nothing’. And she said it as if she’d submerged south of the river and never surfaced.

Having the correct label meant understanding Mum had no control when she was under the influence of her illness. Until then I had judged her and found her wanting: as a mother, a wife, a human being.

My brother and I only had each other and it was our job to protect Mum from well-meaning adults who saw her as an adult-child incapable of performing her parental responsibilities.