Buried in the snow
It was Susan’s 56th birthday and Daphne was putting in an hour of what she called compulsory mother duty. A piped version of Nights in White Satin was just audible in the tiny room. Daphne suppressed a knowing grin: “Just what the truth is I can’t say anymore…” This early-years yarn of Mum’s had become more fanciful with every recounting.