A waiting room with a view.
Mountains, tall and silent, reflected on to the lake like a child’s drawing was painted underneath. Calm, quiet, and my thoughts focussed on the surgery I was about to embark on.
I know what you’re going to say? Looks aren’t everything. But ever since I was a child the scar on my face reminded me of how it got there. A car accident – not my fault – not anyone’s fault really.
My parents were arguing about who would look after me. Their voices were raised, and I tried to stop them. Plenty of of children in my school are divorced. Why should I be different?
But they wouldn’t stop, and, as I unbuckled my seat belt, Mum turned around to tell me to put it back on.
It all went black after that.
I woke up to my mum crying, and my dad nowhere to be seen. Mum told me later, when I was stronger, he didn’t survive the crash. She told me I wasn’t to blame, but it ate away at me.
That is, until I heard the saxophone playing at the airport. It was like my dad was sitting there with me, playing the same old tune. There wasn’t anyone to blame, it just happened.
I turn to my mum, and we both squeeze our hands together.