9
I’m sitting at the breakfast table, staring over at Mum as she devours her second bowl of porridge. She’s only six weeks pregnant and even now she looks ready to pop.
“Your skin is getting worse,” I tell her, dropping the crusts of my toast on the plate. “What does the midwife think?”
Mum doesn’t respond, just refills her glass of orange juice.
“Mum?”
She turns to me; her red face a mask of guilt. “I haven’t told the midwife.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s still early. Six weeks isn’t that long.”
“You told us you went to see her last week. Why the hell did you lie?”
Mum rubs her puffy cheeks and eyes with her even puffier hands. “I’d rather wait.”
“For what?” I ask, a deep scowl on my forehead. “You’ll be having your first scan in a few weeks.”
Mum takes her empty bowl over to the
