Mum was in Dad's minicab and parked, probably illegally, outside the station at Faversham. I started to get into the car, but she got out first. 'What's this? She picked up one of my arms and let it drop. She tapped my wrist, pinched my cheek, poked me in the stomach. 'Did you leave the rest of you in Cambridge?'

Her hair was greyer. I forgot to look at her eyes. Instead I could see the smiling and the frowning she'd done while I was gone, her face quietly folding itself away into some scary distance. I couldn't think of anything to say. I hugged her. She smelt of flour and vanilla.

'I made you a birthday cake,' she said. 'In case you decided to have a birthday today. Remember that, eh?'

Inside the car I buckled up my seat belt, wanting to wrestle the tip of my tongue out of my mouth with my hands, to see if that would encourage sound. She didn't seem to notice that I hadn't said anything, not even hello. She looked over at me as she started up. She said: 'You probably won't be having any cake, though, by the looks of you. Cambridge has turned you bougie, hasn't it. I'll make you a nice cup of tea instead.'

At last: 'Bougie? Are you really calling me bourgeois? What are you on about, Mum?'

Mum grinned. 'Your figure's all boyish now. You know, like one of those girls with skin from a make-up ad who goes off to a lovely house in Italy and has the most beautiful breakdown because the philosophy books she's reading are too much for her brain.'

from White is for Witching, by Helen Oyeyemi

(NB: the lovely house in Italy is definitely in Tuscany)