My son's mother was talking to herself. Literally as two versions of her talked to eachother, sitting in chairs opposite of one another. On the left was the confused and scared psychiatric patient: pale face, wispy hair, crouched with her feet on the chair, dressed in a hospital gown, white with blue dots. Her few years younger or older version - blue t-shirt, combed hair and aubergine coloured trousers - but without severe psychosis.
The latter asking her scared self to finally 'get it out'. Moved to tears she told of a daughter ('Last I know she was in her last year of High School'. Ed. Specifically '5 VWO' in Dutch) before she turned to me, present in a corner of the room: 'I forgive myself. Will you tell our son I love him?'
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