Before I got meningitis I don’t think I’d ever seen her smile or heard her laugh. We lived each day in numb silence, as if Danny had only drowned the day before. She said it was Dad’s fault, all this sadness. She threw herself down the stairs in front of him, though she told people later he had pushed her. He called her a crazy bitch before the front door banged shut after him for the last time. Mum would only take me out of the flat to visit Danny’s grave after that. I ate sugar sandwiches I made myself. I didn’t grow. I drew faces onto my fingers and called them my friends. Then, one morning, my skin seemed to be full of red-hot ants and there was a rash, like scales creeping up my arm. I couldn’t move my neck. Everything went black and when I woke Mum was running with me boiling in her arms, screaming through the hospital, and, just like that, my life changed. Suddenly she noticed me. She stroked my hair, told me I was a good girl when I swallowed the pills she gave me. She kissed me and lied to the doctors about my symptoms, she wouldn’t let me leave my bed for weeks. I remember the nurses telling Mum how small I was for my age and praising her for her courage. I’ve often wondered if it was then that she started to lie and pretend I was three years younger. It wasn’t hard. No one would question such a devoted, loving mum. I was almost nine the first time she told me she loved me and I knew I’d do anything—even lie to the world about who I really was—to hear her say it again.

We got older, but I still didn’t grow. I knew if I tried, if I really tried, I could move my legs more than any of the doctors thought, but it’d make Mum angry so I imagined they were made of stone and stopped moving them completely. My body ended at my waist. Mum said it wasn’t my fault, but my muscles didn’t work properly. Mum was my world. I believed her and so did the specialists. They did physical exams and more tests and said I had high levels of creatine kinase in my blood, which can be a sign of muscle disease—but can also be a sign of being forced to swallow statins. But the doctors didn’t think of that. Why would they? Mum was perfect. No one questions the mother of a sick child. So instead they shook their heads, looked at the fake test results Mum got off the internet, prodded my wasted body a bit more before they said, “The most accurate diagnosis we can make is that Grace has muscular dystrophy. It’s exceptionally rare in females, but it can happen. I’m so sorry.” That night Mum made us chocolate mousse and we watched Disney films. It felt like my birthday.