ou enter her home like a person she knew once, and remember to leave your shoes at the door. The house hasn’t changed much. The floral wallpaper in the sitting-room’s the same, the forest-green carpet, her father’s old La-Z-Boy. But the corner settee is new, to you at least, tanned and scarred with purple felt pen marks. Tomato sauce stains have bedded into the fabric, where attempts at removal have made them more fixed. No tivaevae-covered cushions to cover them up, and gone, thank god, is the plastic sheet. But everything feels muted and the silence disturbs you. Then you hear her children in another room. You know she will make you talk to them at some point, and you try not to think
