When I’d arrived in Ireland eight weeks earlier, I couldn’t climb the stairs, because of my dislocated kneecap, so my parents had moved a bed downstairs into the Good Front Room. She tried to march briskly, like nurses she’d seen on hospital dramas, but there was so much furniture in the room that instead she had to wrestle her way toward me. Mum flung open the sitting-room door and announced, “Morning, Anna, time for your tablets.” A check? But I was just being sarcastic, even though there was no one there to hear me, and anyway, I was only saying it in my own head.Īnd indeed, there was something inside: a photograph…Why was I being sent this? I already had loads…Then I saw that I was wrong. And flimsy enough that I could feel something inside. It was a card, a watercolor of a bowl of droopy-looking flowers.
But apart from a short period between the ages of twenty-nine and thirty, when had I ever been sensible? The sensible woman would throw it in the bin and walk away. Even more so when I saw my name and address… There was no return address on the envelope, which was a little weird.
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