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Today, I know mum is happy. There is flour everywhere. White footprints up and down the living room, trailing to the kitchen. Music. Windows wide open. The smell of burning cakes drifting through.
'Look love, I've been baking, thought I'd make us something special', she squeaks with half a cigarette hanging from her fingers. I hold my tongue. I know I shouldn't say anything sarcastic right now. I grab some oven mitts and open the oven door, covered by smoke and grey clouds. I tell reassure her that they are wonderful, just the same and some icing could help the colour. After all its the inside that tastes the best. She doesn't fall for my fib.
'They're awful, aren't they? I tried, I really did try. I can't even cook a stupid bloody cake. Even you think they're rubbish. I spent all morning trying and I've ruined them like everything else' she sobs. Okay, so I was wrong, not totally happy. Mum lights another cigarette, whimpering into her packet.
'Its okay, we can start again', I know I'll miss morning lessons but I know it will only get worse.