''Mum.''
I knock once on her bedroom door and then come in. She's typing away on her tablet, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She's clad in her grey pajamas and a bonnet is covering her head.
Deep breaths, Mel. Deep breaths.
''Hey, sweetie. Are you good?''
''Somewhat.'' I settle on her bed and lay on her lap. She runs her fingers through my hair. ''What happened?''
Heather Blunt happened. I've been thinking all week about how I'm going to approach the conversation with my mum. I had many opportunities to talk to her: I could have talked to her that Sunday, or this Wednesday, since she was home but I waited till now-Saturday night-to open up an old wound. I don't know how mum would react. It has been ten years and I believe she has moved on but sometimes bringing up the past can resurface old memories that have been buried with time.
