I DRIVE PAST where Mum died and I feel the tractor beam of that place, the urge to pull in and stop. But I don’t. It’s off the highway, down a small gravel road with a dead end, and I know how country eyes work. I know they’ll look through their country windows and wonder who I am. I don’t want anyone to wonder who I am.  

Odd to think my mum died at a dead end.