I’m sitting up in bed, my hands trembling with anxiety.
I’m about to drive over to my mother’s house and initiate one of the hardest conversations of our lives – much harder than when Dad left. Harder than when she had to sell the house. Harder than anything, really.
I wish I didn’t have to do this. I so desperately wish this wasn’t a conversation I had to have with my own mum. But here we are. Here I am – with shaky hands and a racing mind that just won’t slow down.
What am I going to say?
