I stare at Mother. She has leaned her head back against the chair rest and closed her eyes. I watch her motionless for a few moments. You pummel the cushion in desperation. I can bear your anxiety no longer.

“Yes,” I lie. “She’s opening it now.”

“Can you see what she’s reading? Is it my piece about the pond? Does it make her laugh? What’s the expression on her face?”

I turn back to the window. Mother still has her head resting against her chair. I watch her rouse herself, pick up the newspaper, glance at its headline, then let it fall unopened on her lap. I cannot tell you what I see.

“She loves it,” I say. “She turned straight to your story and now she’s laughing her head off.” I pull the curtain firmly across the window and turn away.

You smile as if what I have told you is the most important thing in the world.

It is our ritual. You sit on the bathroom stool, a towel wrapped loosely round your shoulders. I choose lily of the valley and rose water from the shelf and stand behind you. I pour a little of the rose water into my palm and leave it for a moment to warm. Your shoulders are smooth under my fingers. I work my hands down your back, watching your skin undulate to my touch. You lay your head on my chest and as I look down I see the curl of your lashes against your cheek. I knead the soft flesh of your arms as if it is dough.

“Go on,” I nudge you gently, “carry on with the story.”