‘She’s gone inside… And she doesn’t know it, but she’s in danger. That fool is going to ruin her. He is sly – and make sure you eat. You’re looking gaunt – I want to know where my kids are. Tell me where they are. They’ve disappeared. You don’t know the pain of a mother. Tell me where my kids are? They’ve gone? My kids, where are they? TELL ME. PLEASE. Please. Please. There were two little ones. They need me. Please – Are you hungry? You’re looking gaunt. Let me get you some food.’
She darts from one conversation to another, sometimes mid-sentence. Pushing jigsaw pieces into the wrong slots. Petrified because she’s lost her children, and she aches to see them again, cos she fears the worst. And her vicious demand, becomes a weak plea. She accepts her kids are gone. And then as one fear subsides another immediately another starts.
A mother recognises that she knows you, but she doesn’t recognise you as her son. And yet, she still wants to feed you, cos you’re looking gaunt. Whoever you are.
