Trigger warning: deals with death of a mother, with adoption-related trauma.
At the funeral they played Always look on the bright side of life; my older brother joined in on the whistling. She’d have loved that, even though I think they only ever met once.
There’s a part of every mother’s soul that is poured into a new-born child and never returns, and there’s a bond between mother and child that can never be broken. Should never be broken.*
The music in the pub at lunch that first day was distorted but I made out What is it that we are part of, and what is it that we are? On the ’plane comin