up, start to make dinner.
a little later i pass her bedroom.
“come and sit next to me mum, while i do my homework” she says, calmer. i sit next to her. i touch her little hand, her long delicate fingers.
i persuade her to come into the kitchen while i cook. i have a bottle of wine open. she pours herself a glass. i don’t mind her having a little, from time to time, but she pours a full glass.
“that’s a lot” i say.
why don’t i do anything about it? because i’m tired and worried. because i’m scared of dealing with her temper. because i don’t really care that much if she 