All My Mothers

by Joanna Glen

But we cannot pack for death.

She’d given so much of herself to find her children’s potential and, along the way, she’d lost her own.

‘Have you read Don Quijote?’ she said in a slightly slurred voice. ‘It’s supposed to be the first modern novel, but as far as I can work out, it’s a pile of shit.’

You always want your mother.

But no matter how many days you have, it’s never enough. Life is never enough for us. That’s the great tragedy of being human.’