The last time I saw my mother, she weighed less than 5st. She was 64 years old but looked like a woman of 80 – tiny and hollowed out, her skin papery, the whites of her eyes yellowed. I barely recognised her. The stale, sweet smell of old alcohol clung to her. I had to breathe through the shock of it.
I’d driven to the hospital in Great Yarmouth alone that July day in 2024. When I walked into her ward, she looked up, shocked and surprised.
‘Have you come all this way to see me?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Mum,’ I replied. ‘Just
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