One playground memory will forever haunt me. On a bright summer’s day, a so-called friend, Lucy, marched over to me, yelling and pointing her finger in my face.
The source of her rage? I’d declined her invitation to a birthday party.
As her voice raised ever higher, and everyone turned to stare, I choked back tears. Thankfully, one of the onlookers was the headmistress, who led me away to the safety of her office.
It was a classic example of playground bullying. Except for the fact I was 47 – and my bully was another mum.
This led to me cutting Lucy off altogether,
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