“I ’m fine, Mum. Seriously.” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I stare at the canvas filled with sharp yellow while holding the phone to my ear. “Then let me see your face, hon,” Mum says softly, almost pleadingly. She’s always pleading with me, my mum, imploring, asking, probing, and disturbing my routine. I exhale a long breath. I sound like a damn twat to the mother who only ever treated me with care, love, and understanding. And maybe I’m on edge because I don’t want her to hate me. I hate me enough for both of us.