I was in a rush because I'd just clocked out from a late shift and Mum had called to tell me she’d narrowly escaped a date with a creepy guy. Between our house and the train station was a winding, poorly lit path. It was notorious for being the site of most of our town’s assaults so there was no chance I was letting her walk it alone, tipsy in her ‘out out’ get-up. Armed with the classic keys-between-fingers defence.
Mum had been a different person since her divorce. She stayed out late, flirted with guys and once got a little too drunk and ordered a food shop of entirely Prince-purple items while singing 'Little Red Corvette'.
“He was an absolute weirdo,” Mum half laughed, half sighed with disappointment. “He was clearly trying to get me and himself drunk. He was trying to make us both miss the train so he’d have to come back with me!"
“I am a real person!” she said, indignant and naive as to why this was important. You don’t encounter catfishing when you're married for 13 years.
It's 'gross' to think of your parents having sex. From a young and formative age I was forced to confront that. It was vital for my development, enabling me to understand and empathise with Mum's desire for physical intimacy.