This week we are staying in a cottage on a farm above Byron Bay in northern New South Wales. We stay here every Easter. David goes to Bluesfest, and we visit the beach early in the morning before the crowds arrive. Sometimes we find remnants of the night before: bottles, a fire pit, occasionally sleeping people who do not wake up even when the sun is high in the sky.
Read MoreI didn’t feel there was anything I needed to tell you at the end and yet, I wasn’t ready. We weren’t finished. Why is that? In my teens and even into my twenties, I said you were the worst mother. I had reasons for my anger but none of them belonged with you.
Read MoreAndie Fox is a writer I know. She writes heartachingly honestly about women, mothering and where we’ve got to in this sweet old world. We have coffee now and then, very occasionally swim. I have a memoir coming out this year – terrifyingly personal – and Andie, who often writes with herself in the frame, has been my model of how to write courageously about yourself.
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