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that high intelligence often means diagnosis is delayed because clever people find ways to compensate and strategize. You should disclose your condition to your employer, but, on the whole, if the drugs have the desired effect, then there’s no reason your life should have to change drastically any time soon.”
    We’d all been so reassured, so grateful, for what felt like a reprieve, giving us time to adjust and get our heads round what was happening; and then Mum drove her lovely little Fiat Panda—the first new car she’d ever owned—into a postbox. And to cap it all, this happened right outside the school gates. If it had been during the school run, the chances are she would almost certainly have run down a child. It wasn’t that Mum had stopped concentrating—it wasn’t that. She was concentrating very hard on remembering what the steering wheel was for when it happened.
    “Hello, darling.” Linda repeats herself in a singsong whine. “Here to collect your poor mum?”
    “Yes.” I smile ever so brightly, because I know Linda is being nice, and it’s not her fault that the sound of her voice makes me want to break down the door of her bulletproof cubicle and pour that cup of cold tea over her head. “How did it go, do you know?”
    “It’s been lovely, dear. They did an assembly about Alzheimer’s awareness. All the Year Sevens have made a friend at Hightrees Retirement Home, in mem—in honor of your mum.”
    “That’s nice,” I say, as she lets herself out of her cubicle with the jangle of an ostentatious bunch of keys, and buzzes us through into the inner sanctum of Albury Comp: Mum’s school, as I and many other people have thought about it for the last few years, especially since she got her promotion to head of English. Mum made this school what it is. “And they had special tea and cake—you know how your mum likes cake. And I think she seemed really happy, you know, taking it all in. Smiling.”
    I bite my tongue, stopping myself from telling her that she is a silly cow, and that Mum is still Mum and not some brain-dead vegetable all of a sudden. That the diagnosis doesn’t make her any less human. I want to say this to her, but I don’t, because I don’t think Mum would want me to insult the school secretary on her very last day here. Actually, I take that back: I think Mum would love it. But I hold it in anyway. Mum thinking something is a good idea is sometimes a good reason not to do it.
    “She’s not actually so different from how she was six months ago,” I say carefully, as I follow Linda, keys swaying on her hip. “A year ago, even. She’s still Mum. She’s still the same person.” I want to add that she’s still the same woman that told you to get over yourself when you tried to call the police to escort Danny Harvey’s mum out of reception the day she got so sick of the bullying that she came to school to sort out the bullies herself. Mum had been in the staff room when she’d heard the shouting. She’d come out to see Mrs. Harvey, and taken her into the staff room, where she tactfully pointed out that the last thing a twelve-year-old boy needed was for his mum to pile in and beat up the bullies. Mum had got involved then, even though she hadn’t even taught Danny at all. Mum had it sorted within aweek. Mrs. Harvey nominated her for the South Surrey Teacher of the Year award. Mum won it. She isn’t some empty shell of a woman yet. Mum is still fighting, and this is her last stand.
    Linda opens the door to the staff room, where I find Mum sitting with her best teaching friend, Julia Lewis. Before Mum met Greg, Julia was her pulling buddy—that’s what she used to call her. Most of the time, I tried to pretend that I didn’t know what they got up to, and when Mum got together with Greg, the one thing I was relieved about was that I didn’t have to think about my mother having a mysterious sex life anymore. Not that she let me see her getting dressed up to the