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Dear Mum
You were once my Summer and my sunshine, my hero, my best mate, my all and more. I used to look up at you and think that there was no person on earth that was so funny, so cuddly, so perfectly socially versed. You seemed all powerful and accomplished.
I didn't notice, then, in the long years of my childhood, how narrow were the confines of the many houses we lived in, year after year: our home would change, but not your life, which seemed to revolve around me, my father, cocktails you two attended with his navy colleagues and bosses, keeping the house spotless and appearances immaculate. I know now that you couldn't defend me. You could barely defend yourself.

Those confines became at some point too narrow for me. I remember once, when I was 5, I hurt my knee. You sat me on the table, and you told me, out of the blue, when I said I loved you: One day you will not love me anymore'. I was confused, but I see now how prophetic those words were. Except, in my own way, I still love you.
As a teenager, I was a nightmare. I suppose I had to be: I was desperately looking for myself, after years of been your confidante and helper. I was tired of your misery, of your life spent in the shadow of men. You can leave', I pointed out. Solutions didn't appeal to you. You didn't want solutions, you wanted to stay exactly where you were. So I left.
I kept up appearances. I made sure you had some pictures to show your friends and the relatives. I phoned you every 15-20 days and kept sending you letters and postcards for your birthday. Our lives became very different: having experienced life with you, I wanted mine to be an adventure. I had it all planned. I wanted to work, I wanted to earn, be independent, travel, be free. You and I had very little to talk about.
You talked, mainly, and I listened, pretending to agree with you and your lifestyle. I noticed you gained quite some weight and your frantic phone calls became more frequent. You insulted me, accused me of being selfish and degenerate, cried, shouted, all I think because of boredom and fear. The confines of your final little house were, without me, quite unbearable.
It is a relief to not have to listen to those phone calls, and I don't miss you. I have lost count of time, it must well be nearly two years now. That January you knew that was going to be your last time invited in my house. Before leaving, you even said to me Please don't break contact with us. We are only two old fools'. Even then,

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