Hanging on the wall in the hallway of my parents’ house is a portrait of my great grandparents on their engagement day. It’s one of those typical, non-smiling sepia photographs. He has a massive moustache and her hair is scraped back off her face so hard it must have been painful.
They’re both facing slightly off centre. One of his hands is blurred; it looks as if he moved it from resting on her shoulder to cupping her elbow. Or the other way round. I’ve walked past it a thousand times without ever really stopping to look.
My mother puts her hand on my shoulder and pushes me closer. Continue reading “Breakfast (short story)”
Viccy Adams 