as I imagined other mothers did. She'd scrub the wild shag of dark hair between her legs like some sighing, scratching animal while asking me what I wanted to be for Halloween or how I was doing with my phonics. I'd sit on the toilet in my play clothes. Why did I stay there, watching her, answering her questions? I was embarrassed for her, for myself. I've never known what to do in her presence, and I suppose she likes it that way. Deal with it has always been her attitude. Deal with me.

––The Sun, Issue 245