Write-In 2019: 'Personal services.' by Grace Palmer

‘You’ve only got one Mum.’

I slammed the door in his face, rage powering my footsteps, leaving behind the smell of carrots, ancient wee and talcum powder. Besides it wasn’t quite true, was it? I’d been one of those first babies, born with three parents, genetic material mixed and muddled.

In the park I vaped, watched dogs race up and down the Northern Slopes, their owners flinging balls, time after time. The dogs panted, meaty tongues lolling, their wagging tales all yes yes yes. That look in their eyes; so trusting. So compliant. And then the pat. The stroke.

I ran down to the bakery at the bottom of the park. They’d sold out of bread but they still had an egg custard with a grating of nutmeg. Proper wobbly, with pale pastry. Just how she likes it.

‘You’ve only got one Mum.’