Disappearing Me

  The morning Call Picking up the phone with a sigh, I can hear Radio 4 and the bustle of my husband making breakfast downstairs. The same time every morning. The phone call to my mother was a promise I made to my dad shortly before he died. For almost twenty years, the routine has been the same—alarm at six, down to make the tea, then the call just after seven. In the earlier years, if I was a minute or two late, my mother would call me with a sharp inquiry, demanding to know why I hadn't phoned on time. But lately, as she's grown less mobile it takes her longer to reach the phone,   so it’s closer to eight by the time I ring. Ours has always been a difficult relationship. As a child, I feared her. As a teenager, while my friends shared secrets with their mums, I learned to keep mine locked away. It was a shock to discover other girls’ mothers were soft and gentle—people to run toward, not away from. Even now, her disapproval can silence me. Every morning, we have the...