“How can I be a mum? Look at my hands. Mothers don’t have hands like this.” I stood up quickly and took both her hands in mine. Her hands were hard-working and callused, the knuckles on two fingers were flat and gnarled, her nails were cut short and dirty. But this wasn’t about her hands. Not at all. My voice was just a whisper. “A mother doesn’t love with her hands, Trudy. She loves with her heart.”
