It’d started with her eldest’s diary, the May entry in particular. Then she’d found condoms, and a curious plastic bag the size of a small matchbox in her youngest’s jacket pocket.

When they moved to their own homes, taking with them the diaries and closed draws, she realised she would never find intimate snippets on Facebook and MySpace; her lot were too clever for that.

It was when her middle daughter fell pregnant and had her first grandson that the pain started to ink the vacant space expanding in her chest. Phone calls became sparse, and she moved twenty-five miles away.

She hoisted her skirt up and wriggled through the open window, snagging her tights on the window latch. Her son and his girlfriend had preferred to give their key to a neighbour while they were away. She’d felt her lips thin as her son had explained that the Thompsons were closer should anything happen. His girlfriend had stood with her hands on her hips.

No matter, he was always leaving windows open, and this just proved it! It was also unfortunate that they hadn’t told her how long they were going away for. She was holding the pregnancy test stick up to the bathroom light when her son walked in and yelled with surprise.

She wasn’t any of the things he'd called her, and he'd called her a lot in his diatribe. Her one fault was that she’d lost control; and the more control she lost, the darker the ink stained.

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