Acouple of months ago, a story I wrote was shortlisted for a prize, and naturally, I shared the news with my family. My mum, the wonderful cheerleader she is, asked if she could read it. Without too much thought, I emailed her a copy.
Soon afterwards, a seed of worry began to dig around my gut. My story was about a fractured family dynamic, and while fiction, I knew my mum would probably recognise some of the experiences I’d written about. The worry that she would be upset by what I’d written quickly morphed into guilt, and I fretted about explaining myself and the story. If I could have yanked back the email and stopped
