How... how old were you when you had me?She laughed, unamused.
“I was thirteen... no, wait... I was forty-nine. Whatever. Why do you care? What’s it to you, daughter mine?”
“I was just wondering...” I said. She sighed. “I have actually told you all this before, Eleanor,” she said briskly, “I do wish you would listen.”
There was a pause. “I was twenty,” she said calmly.
“From an evolutionary point of view, that’s actually the peak time for a woman to give birth, you know.
Everything just springs back into place. Why, even now, I still have the pert, firm breasts of an early-career supermodel...”
“Mummy, please!” I said. She cackled. “What’s wrong, Eleanor? Am I embarrassing you? What a strange child you are!
You always were. Hard to love, that’s what you are. Very hard to love.”
Her laughter trailed off into a long, painful-sounding cough. “Christ,” she said. “I’m starting to fall apart.”
For the first time I could remember, I heard a note of sadness in her voice.
“Aren’t you well, Mummy?” I asked. She sighed. “Oh, I’m fine, Eleanor,” she said. “Talking to you always revitalizes me.”
I looked at the wall, waiting for the onslaught. I could almost feel her gathering herself, ready to strike.
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