It wasn't just because I could see from Tower Bridge to the Houses of Parliament, but it also was the quality of the garden itself. It was like a maze... Little walls, thick bushes, low-hanging trees.There were so many places to hide, a feature that the younger version of me had taken full advantage of. But, alas, childhood was over. Verity was eighteen, on the verge of going to university. I was twenty-two and had already entered the world of work. I was sure I was the oldest person at the party. I think they shout so much to blow the smoke away from their eyes. The mothers are the weepiest, the elderly distant salutatorians. Tiny girls. Tiny women. Tiny mothers, with their tiny mistakes, refusing to accept that the party is over, that they can’t apologize or write an essay or do community service to get away with their particular error in judgment. Some of them have decided to clasp motherhood with arms of lead, and those ones don’t cry. They plot. There are two of them. Cheyenne lays. More

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