Six.

My mother kept a photo on her bedside table, propped up against the lamp, the edges curling. At the front of the photo was Lorry. He was sitting on my dad’s lap and he was looking at the camera. He wasn’t smiling and he had his thumb jammed into his mouth. My dad was looking at my mother, who was sitting next to them. It looked as though the photo had been taken a split second too soon, and my dad had just turned to face the person holding the camera but he was still looking at my mother. His mouth was open and he was half-smiling and it looked like he was in the middle of telling a joke.

My mother was looking straight at the camera. She was sitting with her back straight and her shoulders held up. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and even though the photo was in black and white, I knew that she was wearing lipstick, and her mouth was glossy and smooth and full. Her eyes were bright and she looked confident and beautiful, and there was a curve to her cheek, a fullness to her chin. On her lap was Petra. My mother had her arms wrapped around her waist. Even though they were twins, Petra was a lot bigger than Lorry. She was wearing a party dress and she had her hair in bunches. In the middle of my mother and my dad there was me, gawky and freckled. In the background you could make out the Christmas tree, the strands on the tinsel reflecting little points of brightness from the fairy lights, like glitter.

I couldn’t remember what Petra’s face looked like, whether she looked like my mother or my dad, or like me or like Lorry. The photo didn’t help. Where Petra’s face should be, there was only a big white smudge, about the size of a thumbprint, where the picture had been worn away. I knew it was the place my mother’s lips found when she woke in the night.