A Drop in the Ocean

by Jenni Ogden

lay propped up with pillows on the couch, the tray of invalid food on my lap. Mum sitting on the floor, her back against the couch, her face lit by the flickering flames. Her blond hair smooth and shining. I can see her bright red jersey and soft gray wool skirt, her shapely legs, clad in opaque black tights, stretched towards the warmth. I must have been about ten. About two years after she and Dad split up and we’d had to move to the pokey flat above the shop. So long since I’ve thought about those rare good times when I felt that Mum cared about me. I knew she loved me, of course, but I mean cared about me enough to not go to work so she could be with me. She even read me stories that time when I was sick. I’d had measles and was home for two weeks. Mum had to take her annual holiday early to look after me. Where was Dad then? I can’t remember him ever coming to see me that time. I suppose he was off on his travels writing other peoples’ stories. I remember Mum once calling him a celebrity father when he arrived late to pick me up for one of our wonderful weekend outings. Later I asked Dad what she meant, and he told me that it was because he wrote articles that people read, and he travelled and met lots of interesting people, and that Mum was probably a bit jealous. I was pretty hard on Mum. I know that, but we’re so different. It’s almost funny to think we’re mother and daughter. Nothing she did interested me, and how she looked just rubbed in how I looked. To be fair...