Now this took ages!

Today didn't seem to be such a great day for writing. I had my usual struggles: not knowing where it's heading next. I knew I had Elaine and her mum in this scene, but I didn't know what they'd discuss, or what would happen. It's like having a blind spot and no matter you turn, you can't see anything until you run into it. I started about about 4.50pm and just decided to stop. It's 7.25 pm and if I forced myself it wouldn't be such a good idea. I'm happy with today's efforts, since it shows the relationship between mother and daughter very well.
On a side note: I had a conversation with a friend who's been reading all my books so far (no, he's not blowing smoke up my arse, he's told me that he wasn't a great fan of the Branded series), and he's rather intrigued. Well, after I told him what story line I had in mind. Nothing I can tell on here, but I've changed the middle/ending a few times again. Just in my mind. At this point, it's fine, but at any later state it would be a disaster. Okay, without further ado, here's the latest section. I hope you like it as much as I do.

                                                                            ~~~~~

'You know,' she said without turning, 'Auntie Barbara said it helped her to speak to someone after Uncle Fred passed away.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes. And she's happy with Edward.'

I rolled my eyes at her back; was that the point on which she planned to introduce me to one of her knitting group's women's sons?

As if she'd heard my thoughts she quickly said, 'That came our wrong, what I meant was it couldn't hurt to talk to someone … professional.'

'Not interested.'

'So, you're just giving up? Twenty seven's far too young to stay single.'

'Mum, give it a rest.' I bit my lip and formed fists under the table. This was going in the wrong direction.

She sighed. 'Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if you had a girls' night out with Amy.'

That was enough. How insensible could she be? I stood, almost knocking the chair over. 'Seriously, mum? John's body isn't even cold yet and you want to re-marry me? Have you lost it?'

'Watch your words, Elaine. You may be grieving, but that doesn't give you the right to talk to me like that. I'm still your mother!'

'Well, then don't make such stupid suggestions.' I muttered, sitting down again.

'You're reading too much into it. All I'm saying is that it may be good for you—take your mind off things. At least for a few hours. I don't see how locking yourself into the bedroom is any help.'

'Mum, don't you understand? I'm not ready yet. I can't switch off my feelings like a tap. I miss him.' My voice broke. 'I miss him so much.'

'I know, sweetheart, I know. We all do.' She gently stroked my rocking shoulder. 'It'll need time. It's true when they say time heals all wounds.'

'I don't need time,' I replied through my sobs, 'I need John. Why him? What have I ever done to deserve this?'

She continued to stroke my back while I helplessly slumped over the table. What could she have said to comfort me, that his time was up? Hardly.

When the tears finally ebbed, I sat up and wiped my nose on the sleeve. My mother shook her head, but said nothing. For a moment, I stared at the clock at the wall, a plate with a silly picture of a cockerel on it; I'd bought it as a joke present and John found it so hilarious, he'd immediately taken out the hammer to put it up, chuckling all the while. I'd planned to 'accidentally' smash it, but somehow got used to having it there. It did what it said on the tin: tell the time. Ugly and all. I tore my eyes from the clock and caught my mother studying me. 'What?'

'Nothing. It's just nice to see you smiling again.'

'Don't get used to it.'

'You say that now, but it'll change.'

I got up and stretched. 'I'll go and watch a film. Or two. Thanks for dinner.'

'Any time.'

Before leaving for the bedroom, I stopped to kiss my mother on the cheek. She petted my hand and said, 'I love you, too, sweetheart.'

My choice of films was limited; nothing that contained any sort of romance, nothing sad, with someone dying, which left me mostly with comedies, which so far didn't make me laugh, thrillers, or science fiction. I'd had exhausted documentaries and soaps on television and nothing offered distraction of the pain. Heartache, if only Ibuprofen could sort this. For the first two weeks I drank a lot of wine—to take the edge off, but since I didn't leave the house, the stock we had had dwindled fast. My mother and Amy refused to buy me more, saying my becoming an alcoholic wasn't the solution, which was fair enough. But at least it numbed the pain sufficiently. Watching films, however, did keep everyone off my back for a while. I picked a DVD at random and pressed play.

A knock on the door announced my mother's approach, she stuck her head in. 'I'm going home now. Do you need anything for tomorrow?'

I shook my head. What I needed, she couldn't get me. Nobody could.

'All right, then. Be back around ten-ish. Good night.'

'Night, mum.'

The door closed and I settled into my pillows, sniffing at the covers, it didn't smell of John anymore.