There comes a time when you get a chance to become a mother to your mother. And then you see it all - their petulance at being denied something, the sulking, the joy when you stop work early to spend time with them, the sneaking past bedtime, the eye-rolls when you suggest something proper and wise, high tempers over some non-issue with a friend, endless chats with siblings, excessive TV viewing, naughty smirks when they take your phone to scroll through Instagram or order something random on Amazon...or wake you in the middle of the night on the pretext of telling you a bad dream when they really just want to stay up late and chat, or throw medicines down the sink, pass their bowls of sugar-free vegan icecreams to father (who shows uncharacteristic self-restraint regarding desserts only then), tell you that you look like a turnip when you wear a rather nice sweatshirt, eat berries on the sly, bribe the help to buy gulab jamuns, take over your laptop when you're away, share opinions on your work (nothing complimentary), pretend to be so hurt when you scold them, only be placated when you take them out for chocolate milkshakes and fries...and you see in that wilful, beautiful face, a little girl who wants to play.
All said and done, Mumsy - you were a brat. (My brat...but still.)
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