I’d started borrowing mum's razor when I was fourteen.
But the clean clothes, the styled hair and healthy toned body?
The well rested, well fed, loved and cared for Marco?
That's who she didn’t recognise.
I’m not saying she didn’t do her best, despite the circumstances.
And I know that she loves me.
I’m just saying.
If this is how much I’ve changed, imagine…
I let myself think it.
Imagine how muchshemight bloom if planted in different soil.
My concern deepens as she makes her way across the kitchen to the doorway.
Her limp has gotten so much worse.
I need to get her to a physio or specialist of some kind.
But the nearest clinic is hours away.
She lacks the transport, money, confidence, and “permission” to leave town on her own.
Ease her into the idea,I decide.
Dad's scared her into staying.
Bet he's made a threat of some kind.
I imagine her a few years from now, celebrating her fiftieth birthday.
Will she be free and safe?
I imagine her blooming in the right soil.
Sitting on a beach with us somewhere, eating all the watermelon she can handle.
Looking gorgeous after a morning of pampering with my hair stylist Josie.
Telling me about the friend she's made at quilting club.
Or the garden that she and Amos's mum have planted in her new back yard.
Will she be smiling more and walking without pain?
Would she let me pay for her to get her teeth and leg fixed?
Will she sleep well at night, knowing that she’s safe and loved.
Knowing that no harm will come to her?
Or will she still be here, watching the door in fear, bracing for my father's next tantrum?
