I don't remember the night she left, but I remember the morning after because you were trying to make me breakfast and you didn't know where anything was. <...> Well, I knew she'd come back because she'd left all her clothes, you know. She loved her clothes more than anything in the world. And I kept going into her room and checking on them. And then after a few months you suddenly said that we had to get rid of them all, so, I remember folding them all very neatly, and I kept hoping that there was going be, you know, a secret note or something that would be written for me, you know, just to me, telling me that she loved me, and explaining the secret magical reason why she had to go, you know? I mean, I still have this uncontrollable urge to just go up to people and say: «My mother left me, when I was seven». You know, as if that would explain everything. And I miss her. And I hate her. And I miss her. And I feel like I was on a train and it crashed or something, and no one came and rescued me.
