“It was awful, Mum.”
I hold her tight, and the sobbing slowly subsides.
My heart aches for her, but I’ve seethed as she’s preened, teased and tantalised; I’ve brooded as she’s experimented, testing the boundaries, flexing her burgeoning sexuality.
The man I loved should have known better, of course.
Harry’s gone now – out of our lives – shamed, embarrassed, apologetic and denying devious intent.
“Your daughter’s a drama queen,” he’d protested, “don’t let her destroy us.”
But I couldn’t take that chance.
Robbie, my youngest, watches uncertainly from the kitchen door.
“Is it just us again now, Mum?”
“Just us, son.”
I haven’t recommenced writing new work yet, but I have started editing and resubmitting some old work so I’m feeling brighter again. Rochelle, star not only of Friday Fictioneers, but also stage, screen and radio… (well, radio – I’m sure the others will come in due course) has been spreading the word about her work. Catch it if you can, she comes across as one smart, sassy lady.