Aurora’s mother sat on the sofa eating scones and drinking tea. She was thin and her cheeks were sunken in. “Emaciated” was the word that came to Aurora’s mind and she wondered if her mother had been mistreated while she was in the hospital. The pajamas she wore looked old and scruffy, and Aurora wondered how many patients had literally worn them to death.
The old woman’s hair had been cut short and it lacked style. There was no make-up on her face or jewelry around her neck, but, now that she was safe, she looked happy. Before her sanity had been snatched from her, she had been described as hopeful, kind, charitable, and beautiful. Even now, sick as she was, no one could look into her eyes and not see the woman she’d once been.
“Mother,” she whispered, once they were alone again, “when
