Wicked witch of Yorkshire
Staring up at the man in the navy suit, I watched as he shuffled his papers.
He smelled of shoe polish and stood with a briefcase by his side.
‘I’m sorry to tell you, your mother is dead,’ he said. ‘Do you understand?’
What’s he on about? Mums don’t die, do they?
My mum Betty had been ill for some time.
She’d found a lump while breastfeeding my younger sibling.
And instead of helping Mum to feed the hens on our farm in Yorkshire,
