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Her sleeves were pushed up.
She was scrubbing her arms with a soaked rag, dragging it over her skin with the desperate obedience of someone trying to erase herself.
I saw the open bottle.
I saw the red irritation.
I saw the old bruises underneath.
Then I saw my mother.
She was sitting in my armchair with her ankles crossed, pearls at her throat, a folded towel in her lap.
Helen, the private maternity nurse my mother had insisted on hiring, sat beside her, lifting a slice of pear to her mouth like she had been interrupted during tea.
Audrey looked up when the door clicked shut behind me.
Her body jerked so hard I thought she might fall sideways.
One hand flew to her belly.
The other kept hold of the rag.
“I’m almost clean,” she whispered.
Her voice was not loud.
It was worse than loud.
It was trained.
“Please don’t let them be upset. I’m almost done. I promise.”
I have heard fear in my life.
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