On the whiteboard that hangs in our kitchen, my mum scrawls a reminder to herself in black marker that squeaks its imprint onto the white space.
She puts the lid back on, a smile playing on her face.
A sudden laugh bursts out of her, the happiness lighting up her eyes.
"Isn't it nice to have a mother who can write?" she asks me.
I laugh back bewildered and with it embarrassment and something akin to shame masks her previous joy.
I cringe. Stop. Try to understand.
She slowly explains:
"I was just thinking how amazing it would have been if my mum had been taught how to write".
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