It’s a hard thing to know about your own mum. That she’d side against you.
We were so old, she and I, she had had me so young, that we were like a couple of old cronies, sexless, unrelated, with the same memories, the same rancours, the same expectations.
Their mother’s blossoming happiness had affected them deeply; it was like seeing the start of a good drenching rain.
But it’s not the same with your mum. She’s there all the time but she’s mostly invisible. It’s only when she’s gone you get that wanting feeling and get curious.