The room was clinical and sparse, but comfortable despite its mint green walls and overly starched bed linen. Dad stood by the window, his hands in his pockets, staring out with his lost puppy-dog expression and Meg knew he wasn’t checking the tears that slipped down his face.
She bit her lip and gazed at her heavily medicated mum.
Meg leaned across the bed and rested her cheek against her mother’s soft face. Her kiss elicited no response and Meg closed her eyes picturing, just for once, that she had a normal mum, and she bit back her conflicting resentment.