28
“Ivy?” I call out, croakily, half-asleep, my vision clouded over.
“No, sweetheart,” Mum replies, softly, walking over to my bedside, “it’s Mum.”
“I thought you were Ivy,” I whisper, eyes stinging as the haze slowly lifts.
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just turning the TV off.”
“I had another dream,” I say, quietly. “About Ivy.”
Mum sits on the edge of the bed and gently strokes my hair. “Did you, sweetheart? What happened?”
“We were playing in the garden.”
“That sounds nice,” she says with a smile. It must be forced because she’s been crying again; her lips are puffy and her eyes are bloodshot.
I shake my head. “She was being mean to me. Telling me that it was my fault that she died.” I suddenly burst into tears, my stomach and chest tightening as the sadness ripples throug
