This morning was dark. We needed the lights on. It felt like the days were shortening, not lengthening. November in February.
I saw myself back then: holding tight to the pushchair, two sisters strapped in, another clinging on the opposite side. Mother: wearied, harried, always the same conversation. “Are they all yours? And all girls?”
I felt invisible, lost in the murk of a November afternoon when we couldn’t afford to take the bus or it was too much effort to load us on so we walked instead, holding on hard.
Invisible. Lost in the murk. Lost in the group.