The Mother And Daughter Diaries. Clare Shaw

part of Jo. It was like one of those modern conservatories tacked onto the front of a beautiful, old, beamed Tudor house. Like a down-and-out with a bottle of meths and a Gucci handbag. I tried to change my anger into gentle understanding.

      ‘All I’m doing is giving you some support. Perhaps I should have just let you walk to the doctor’s.’

      Oops, I had played my joker—the guilt card.

      Guilt goes with motherhood. Guilt because we dare to go out to work, guilt because we failed to buy Barbie’s health spa, jacuzzi and leg-waxing centre three Christmases ago, guilt be-cause we sometimes buy pre-packed, e-numbered, shove-in-the-microwave suppers. And every now and then we try to disperse all that guilt in another direction.

      Jo raged upstairs, stamping her feet on every step and leaving me sitting there like a damp firework. I knew I wasn’t handling this very well but I felt out of control. Something was happening that I couldn’t keep tabs on, it was running away with me, spinning out of my hands. I felt frustrated, inadequate, out of my depth. I just sat there, staring into my coffee-mug, weighed down by thoughts and emotions. I don’t know how long I remained in that position, but when Jo appeared in the kitchen doorway I realised that my hands were numb from holding the weight of my head in them for so long.

      ‘Mum, there really isn’t anything to worry about,’ began Jo. ‘They’re going to run some tests but the doctor was right and so were you—I’d just become frightened to eat, that’s all. I suppose it’s a sort of eating disorder and I have lost weight but not that much. The thing is, I’ve been to the doctor as a precaution but I can sort this out myself. I probably don’t need the clinic at all. I might go just for a bit of one-off advice. I won’t be like the others there.’

      Suddenly the sun shone through the yellow curtains in our kitchen and we all danced together in the sunbeams, like fairies on a midsummer’s evening.

      When Jo was little, I used to read her stories about magical places. I also used to sit her in front of the television while I topped up on caffeine and magazine gossip. I used to take her to the park and push her on the swings for as long as she wanted, but then I would wheel her pushchair around the clothes shops until she was stiff with boredom. I was, in many ways, a near-perfect mother but on a part-time basis. Now I simply tried too hard to be that story-reading, swing-pushing mother.