Tell me something.

How often do you look forward to seeing your mum only to be stroked with the iron splints of her criticism?

Sigh.

“What took you so long? Now I’m late,” she greets you at the door.

You sprint into the kitchen to fill her fridge with homemade goodies you’ve spent hours conjuring up. She waits impatiently in the doorway, her eyes glued to your back.

“Leave it, would you? I must go.”

You swallow the humble pie and help your mother into the car. [Read more…]