My mother stood there in her cream silk dress and her gold jewelry, looking at me like I was a stray cat that had wandered onto her lawn. Like I was an inconvenience. Like she hadn't left a note on my pillow and lured me to a motel that smelled like stale cigarettes and regret.
"Mum?" I said again. Stupid. Pathetic. I couldn't stop saying it.
And then her face crumpled.
Not slowly. Not carefully. All at once, like someone had reached inside her and pulled a plug. Her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. Her hands flew to her mouth, and she made this sound, this horrible broken sound, like a wounded animal.
"Alexandra," she whispered. "My baby."
She ran to me.
