Tonight the argument escalated to a point where we are both terribly shaken at how ferocious we can be towards each other.
The Aga was off because we ran out of kerosene a few days ago so, instead, we filled the kitchen with the heat of our fury until words whimpered away, and our tears tore our anger into small shivers of hot shock.
My son and I looked at each other with black eyes, unblinking and hateful but then one of us blinked and we found comfort in the Chinese food I’d brought home.
I have just tucked him in – this Anthony clone, Ming - and he admitted that he is terrified of losing me in the same way he has lost Anthony, his father, to illness. My sprained ankle terrified and engraged him.
His rage was thunderous and his beautiful face was contorted into a thousand lines of teenage fear. “I can’t lose you too, Mum,” he said, shivering into the blankets I piled ontop of him.
He always starts ‘the argument’ but I don’t blame him at all for this – my fantastic son, Ming.