Stepping into the living room, the first thing I spot is a huge bouquet of red roses. It has the shameful resemblance to the bouquets that men in love send to their women. I walk around the flowers with a frown, and a rotten feeling is creeping up my belly into my chest. I call my mother, who stops in the doorway, drying her hands into a tea towel.
“What is this?” I point to the bouquet with a grumpy face.
My mother raises her eyebrows, then smiles at me with a tilted head.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Yes. But how did they get here?” I ask, angrier and angrier.
“What do you mean, how did they get here?”
“Are they yours?” I ask with annoyance, because I should also consider the option that my mother has got flowers from some chap. Some old guy I will give a piece of my mind to, once this ma
