There’s so much I want to say, to shout even – questions, statements, accusations – but the words won’t come. I sit there dumbly, holding the picture Ace has just given me. Mum stumbles forward slowly, sees it, and her expression changes to shock, horror, guilt. She turns deathly pale, as if someone has pulled a thin white veil across her face. Then she begins to hyperventilate.
‘Ace, she’s having a panic attack!’ I gasp, scrambling to my feet.
Ace leaps into action. She guides Mum, gulping for air as she struggles to breathe, back into her room and sits her down on the sofa.
‘Breathe, Jamila,’ Ace urges her. ‘Slow, deep breaths. Relax. It’s OK. Just breathe.’
I watch in silence. This is usually my role; this is what I do when the panic attacks come. But this time I can’t. How can I help Mum when I’m so angry and confused I feel like battering down the walls around us with my bare hands?