Mum talked about her dad a lot. Not her biological dad, but her ‘real’ dad as she called him. He died before I was born, but even when I was little she talked about him so much I felt like I knew him. He sounded like he made magic happen. I was so grateful that the memories she kept revisiting were ones that made her happy. It didn’t always work out that way. There was a woman in her home who relived her parents’ deaths as though they had just happened. All that grief and trauma over and over again.

I wondered if I got stuck in time, what I would say about my dad.

There’d be swearing, I imagine.

Mum stood up and looked around, biting her lip.

“Where’s the bathroom?” she asked.

I told her I’d bring her and I took my bag but left our half-drunk tea and Mum’s cardigan to show we were coming back so the waitress wouldn’t think we weren’t going to pay the bill. I ushered her past the till to the disabled bathroom and loitered outside. Mum didn’t usually need help with the toilet, but you still had to wait for her, especially in a place she could get lost or disoriented easily. I couldn’t help but think of the day when she would need help inside. It’s not that I’d mind, but I knew that she would.

Mum opened the door and looked out at me.

“I . . . the sink doesn’t work?” she said. I looked over at it and saw it was one of those fancy ones where you had to hover your hands under exactly the right spot to get soap and water, so I took her over and helped her wash her hands. At the same moment we were exiting the bathroom, a man scooted past me in the narrow hall to get to the men’s room. He stopped when he clocked us.

“You shouldn’t use the disabled toilet if you’re not disabled,” he said in the most teacher-y tone of voice.

I gave him the coldest look I could muster, hoping he would jog on and leave us be. Instead, he seemed to wait for a response. Mum’s face crumpled and she took a step behind me.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” she said.

I don’t think she really understood why he was giving off, but she could sense the tone.

“Feck off,” I said, tempering my language because Mum hated swearing. “Mind your own bloody business.”

The man tutted angrily and when his back was turned I gave him the finger. On both hands. And there was a little dance too.