She was a quiet, watchful, worried woman, and I had loved her without ever quite understanding her, the way you love a parent before you’re old enough to see them as a person.
When she died she left a hole shaped exactly like a mother — the person who worries about your stomach, who makes sure you’ve eaten, who watches you with that particular attention — and for years that hole ached in a way I didn’t have words for.
So when Lucien’s mother came into my life, warm and worried and wanting to make me tea, I did not just accept her.
I was hungry for her.
She stepped into the exact shape my mother had left, and I was so grateful to have it filled again that I never once asked whether the person filling it was safe.
My hunger for a mother made me the easiest possible mark.