by Jan Lane
The women are sitting in the lounge. The younger of the two is aware that her mother is talking to her, but she doesn’t hear the words. She examines the deeply etched face, lines for which she feels no guilt or responsibility. There have been no reprisals either, just desperation so intense it’s almost tangible. Immune to the nervous chatter, she notices the gap where the grubby net curtains should meet in the middle. She used to sneak wistful glances through that gap. As she looks through it now, all at once the years start to roll away, and she knows that she will soon leave again.
Jan Lane writes from West Dorset.