We do Sunday dinner at my parents’ every fortnight. Me, Britta, Mum, Dad, Nan.
Britta had her laptop out before the plates were cleared, absolutely delighted with herself, clicking through the ethnicity breakdowns and being loud about the fact that we are boringly, overwhelmingly local.
Then she clicked onto my profile.
And I watched my mother’s face come off.
I don’t have a better way to describe it. It didn’t fall or drop. It came off, like something unclipped, and what was underneath was a woman I had never met.
Britta said, very quietly, « What did you do? »
She was staring at that screen like it had insulted her personally.
I laughed. An awful little laugh, the kind you make when you don’t understand yet.
« I didn’t do anything. What is it? »
Nobody answered.
