I saw it as I entered the bathroom. A syringe; needle attached. An alcohol wipe. Horror shuddered through me. It can’t be! How is this possible? So many times I have seen it, but never here.
Breathe calmly, I think. Pull yourself together.
I find her in the kitchen.
Dropping the syringe on the table, I Look accusingly at her.
She looks down, and away, collecting her thoughts, searching for a lie.
“It must belong to my diabetic friend, Lyndsey,” she says.
Quickly, I grab her arm, pull up her sleeve.
“Mum, how could you!” I wail.
© Jane Paterson Basil