The Cows

‘Come on, Cammie, it will be fun,’ says Tanya on the phone. ‘We haven’t done anything just the four of us in ages.’

‘I hate spas,’ Cam says, rejecting the idea of a bonding exercise with her sisters, and hating the cliché of ladies getting their nails done together. ‘Can’t we just have a day at Mum and Dad’s? I’ll get a takeaway for everyone or something?’

‘No, Cammie, the whole point is that we want to get away from the kids. Come on, if Mel doesn’t get a full body massage her veins will explode and wipe out the human race. She’s a fucking mess, do it for her. Do it for Mel’s veins.’

‘OK, OK, stop, they make me gag. I’ll do it. I’ll spend an afternoon in a posh spa with my mean sisters, I can’t wait.’

‘We love you really … little Cammie, all grumpy and alone, loves her sisters when they phone …’

‘That’s a rubbish poem,’ Cam says, smiling. ‘I will join you for an afternoon in the spa because if I don’t, you’ll talk about me all day and make things up about me.’

‘Yup, we probably will. OK, I’ll book it. And hey, you OK to pay for it? I know you’re raking it in?’

‘Of course. I’ll pay for everyone if you promise to be nice?’ Cam loves being asked to pay. Her finances are an undisputable triumph.

‘Oh but Cammie, you’re such fodder for us tired old mums. OK, I’ll text you later when I’ve booked somewhere, love you.’

Cam hangs up, and goes straight to her Twitter feed. There are countless messages of support after her performance on BBC Radio London.

Camilla should be happy, but she’s not, she’s irritated. Philippa was this great girl with a head full of strong opinions, but too spineless to act on them. That shit drives Cam crazy. If women are reading her work and still not being confident enough to take command of their own lives, then she isn’t being direct enough. She needs to write a blog that will get women, like Philippa, itching to go to work to tell their boss, and society, to go fuck itself. She gets to work.

www.HowItIs.com – A Call to Action

I think women need to stop talking about how hard being a woman is and live by the example they want to set. Every time I look on Instagram or Twitter there is another post about how hard it is being a working mum, how hard it is being a woman who works in the city, how hard it is being a woman and having to be beautiful. It just goes on and on and on. What’s more, most of these posts are written by successful or famous women right at the top of their game. Their beauty made them rich but they don’t want to be objectified for it, they earn more than most men but still go on about how hard their industry is, they have all the childcare they want, but they can’t juggle family and work.

You might be scared, and I understand that. The consequences of speaking out are high. You can’t afford to lose your job, you have a family to support, rent or a mortgage to pay. But what if? What if you speak up and get what you want, or a compromise is found, what if something does change? Taking risks is what moves us forward. When you’re in a rut you have two choices, you stay in it, or you fight your way out. I’m not saying put your security on the line, but I am encouraging you to at least investigate a possibility, if there is one, for things to be better. Say when things are wrong, speak up when you are put down, take control of your own destiny.

I think we’ve got feminism to this place where there is too much talking and not enough action. If I was a guy, I’d just say, ‘OK, if you want me to stop treating you differently because you’re a woman, stop going on about being a bloody woman.’

We all know what the problems are, where the challenges lie, what needs to change, so let’s live by the words we preach rather than just say them on social media, let’s be active in making a change. By actually changing the things around ourselves, we change the world. If you don’t fight your own corner, you can’t fight anyone else’s. Be who you want to be, get what you want, and the position of women in the world will change. By helping ourselves we help others. It’s true. If you all went to work tomorrow and told your boss what you want, the pay gap would start to close. And so on and so on. As an individual, you can change the world; why wait for someone else to try to change it for you?

I’m worried that there are too many women out there who know the difference between right and wrong but don’t have the guts to say it to the people in their own lives who are causing the problem. What is stopping you? Who are you afraid of? Men, why? Other women? Well, that’s just dumb. The reason men progressed above us in society is because they dominated us with actions and attitude. It’s that simple. To re-address the balance, we have to do the same thing. If someone is overpowering you and stopping you getting to where you want to be, then STOP letting them do it. If someone is objectifying you for your sexuality, STOP allowing yourself to be objectified. If someone is stopping you get what you want, tell them. If they still get in your way, move on. Stop using victim language like, ‘because I am a woman’ and ‘being a woman is hard because’ at the start of every sentence about your success, or lack of. Take being a woman out of the equation and just go forth and conquer. You have the power to shape your own destiny, you have the power to dictate how people treat you. You have the power not to be made to feel small, put down, or intimidated. As Ghandi said, ‘Be the change that you wish to see in the world’. Everything that happens to you is in your control, because you control how you respond.

Don’t apologise for who you are, and don’t take shit. Don’t be a victim. Feminism needs you to step up. Get what you want. Just go out there, and take it.

Cam x

It usually only takes a few minutes for responses to start pouring in from Cam’s blogs, but today she feels too impatient to sit and wait. Needing a distraction, she reads a new email from Tara. This friendly correspondence is exciting her a bit. The tone of the emails is so casual, it’s intimate and honest. She can’t be sure why it feels different from correspondence with other fans, but it is. Why is that? It could just be the thrill of something that she wrote having the desired effect, or maybe it’s the idea that she is secretly conversing with the most talked-about person on Twitter. Or maybe it’s simply because Cam gets a good vibe from her new email buddy. And no matter how content she tells herself that she is in her solitude, there is space in her life for a friend like Tara Thomas.

Hey Cam

So I’m sitting in the back of a police car as they hauled me in to discuss my ‘indecent exposure on the Victoria Line, eastbound train’. They decided not to press charges and now a policeman who is about ten years younger than me is driving me to my mum’s house.

So that’s all giving me the confidence boost I need.

This is all so surreal. This time last week I produced documentaries about people, now I feel like the whole world is making one about me. ‘The Thomas Show’. It’s got a ring to it. Kill me now!

Tara x

‘A documentary maker?’ Cam says to herself quietly. She doesn’t know why, but she knew Tara would have a cool job. She realises that the world only knows her as ‘Wank Woman’ but now Cam is one of the few people who knows her real name. She types ‘Tara Thomas, documentary maker’ into Google. A headshot of Tara on IMDB comes up right away. She looks a little less dishevelled than in the video, but it’s unquestionably her. Long brown curly hair, freckles, a button nose and deep brown eyes. She’s quite unique looking, not easy to hide. The page reads:

Cam is impressed, her credits are awesome. She spends an hour or two speeding through clips of Tara’s work; it’s clever, thought-provoking and full of confidence. She can see now that Tara’s job will be almost impossible with the new credit of ‘Wank Woman’ added to her CV. Cam had always loved the idea of being a TV producer but her social skills meant she couldn’t work with contributors. She feels even more sympathy for Tara now.

Hey Tara,

I just looked you up. You’re a big deal, your shows sound so good. Look, this will pass. I’m sure it feels like it won’t, but of course it will. There are scandals all the time, but they get boring eventually. Someone else does something and the public move on to that. Maybe I could get filmed rubbing myself sexually against one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, to distract attention from you? Would that help? But really, this world moves at a terrific pace. One minute something is there, and then it is gone. Hang in there, Cam x

Hey Cam

You’re right, it will pass. But something tells me this is just beginning. The police coming means people know who I am, it’s just a matter of time until the press reveal my name and the true weight of global humiliation is upon my shoulders. How are you supposed to react to this?

Oh, also my mum just watched the video. You can imagine.

T x

p.s. Leave those lions alone, you weirdo.

Tara!

Oh GOD! Welcome to my world. Every blog I write seems to mortify my mother more and more. She’s read about me masturbating so many times I think she thinks it’s all I do. Which is 50% true, I suppose. I spend a lot of time alone ;)

Maybe we should start a club ‘The Embarrassing Daughters’ Society’?

Sorry about the whole police thing. Glad you didn’t go to prison, C x

Yeah, me too. This will all be hard enough to explain to my daughter when she grows up. Not sure how I manage that without her thinking that a woman touching herself is a criminal offence. X

You have a daughter, how old? I presume you’re single? Hope that doesn’t offend you … just … you know …

Not offended. Yup, a six-year-old called Annie. And nope, no partner. A single mum with a lot of explaining to do x

A daughter? A single mum? Wow, Cam thinks. The press will go to town on that! She wonders how different her blog would have to be if she did have kids. Would she have to stop writing about sex, because it would be seen as inappropriate? She reads over the article she just posted and questions herself. Can she really comment on how it feels to be a working mother? How hard it is, how it feels to have someone else pretty much raise your kid? Not really, she has no idea. Her mother never worked, her sisters don’t do nine-to-five jobs. It’s all very well for her to think women should stop moaning and get on with it, but what does she know? If Tara had got caught wanking on a train and she didn’t have a kid, this would eventually blow over. But because she’s a mum, this will stick. That’s how the world works, mothers have to behave themselves. Another point that makes Cam feel even more determined not to reproduce.

Tara, you don’t need to explain yourself to anyone and you’ll find a way to help your daughter understand. I’m here if things get tough, email me anytime. I’ve got your back, Cam x

Tara

I had to leave Mum alone in the house for a minute. She went into actual shock and I feel shit enough without watching her face go from white to purple and back again as she tries to think of something to say. There is nothing to say. Her daughter wanked on a train, end of conversation.

As I walk out of the house, I instinctively hunch my shoulders over like someone who is up to no good. I grew up on this street. It’s quiet, so my friends and I used to play in the road, something I can’t even imagine suggesting Annie would do now. She’s not allowed beyond the front door on her own; it’s depressing how much the world has changed. The Internet has petrified us all. Never more for me than now.

As I get to the end of the path, I see Mrs. Bradley and her son, David, heading towards me. They live two doors down, which tortured me for most of my teenage life because Mrs Bradley was my headmistress. Living on the same street as your headmistress is terrible; you simply cannot be a rebel, no matter who your friends are. Mrs Bradley and my mum always got on really well, she’d pop round on Saturday mornings for tea, which I hated more than anything else. Mum always made me come down to say hello, but then I’d hide upstairs until she’d gone. She always brought David with her, which made things even worse.

David was in my class, we called him ‘special needs’ back then. Or ‘spastic’, which now makes me feel terrible. We didn’t realise anything was wrong until we were ten and he kept taking his trousers off at school. We all called him a pervert, and he got picked on and laughed at and called ‘weird’ and a ‘freak’. Mrs Bradley came under pressure because all of the other teachers wanted him to be expelled, but she was the headmistress and couldn’t bring herself to do it. Eventually she had to, and he went to a special school, and over the next few years people started to understand him a little better. We all felt like total shit for taking the piss out of him when we realised he actually had a condition, but hey, we were kids, what did we know?

Sophie, of course, found the idea of terrorising him with her sexuality thrilling, and one Saturday morning after she’d stayed over and Mrs Bradley was downstairs, she made me go down to ask if David would like to come and listen to music with us. I’ll never forget the look on Mrs Bradley’s face, she was so touched. ‘Oh, Tara, that is so kind. I’m sure David would love to, what do you think, David?’

David didn’t say anything, just stared at the floor. But when I went to leave, he followed me. I turned back to look at Mrs Bradley and her eyes welled up. When David and I got to the top of the stairs, Sophie was standing there with her top off, jiggling up and down so her boobs were going everywhere. I thought he was going to be sick, he started making this weird noise, like a sea lion. His arms went really straight like they were stuck to the side of his body, while his top half kept planking backwards and forwards so hard, I thought he was going to fall down the stairs. I yelled at Sophie to put her top back on and Mrs Bradley came running up to see what had happened. Sophie nose-dived into my bedroom, so I was left to try and explain why her son was going mad.

‘He has these fits,’ she said, putting her arm around him and helping him downstairs. ‘He has these fits.’ She led him straight out the front door and took him home.

Mrs Bradley stopped bringing him with her on Saturdays after that. I have no idea if he ever told her what happened, or if he kept it to himself. But he has avoided me ever since, and I think that is totally fair enough.

‘Hello Mrs Bradley, hello David,’ I say, as they walk towards me. If I’d have had more time, I’d have run across the street and hidden under the seat of my car until they’d gone. Apparently David has never been able to get a job and so still lives at home and spends the majority of his time watching YouTube videos. Has he seen it? Maybe.

David is staring at the ground. I’m trying to gauge him. Has he seen it? What would he say if he did?

‘Ah yes, we’re ticking along. Very much looking forward to your father’s birthday party on Friday.’

‘Oh, you’re coming? I ask, even though I knew she would be. Mum has invited people to the house, she’s going to do her cottage pie and a salad buffet. It will be a few family members, some of Dad’s mates from his club and some neighbours. Nothing big or fancy, but I want to be sick every time I think about it.

‘Great. See you there then. I have to run,’ I say. David is freaking me out; he usually at least looks at me but he’s now moved behind Mrs Bradley. Even she seems uncomfortable with this particular level of social awkwardness from him.

I hurry away, and into my car. I call Mum and promise to pick up Annie later. I want to get home as quickly as I can. Now the press knows my name, and where I live, it’s just a matter of time before it’s published and I want to see it when it is. But shouldn’t I be hiding under my car, pretending the Internet isn’t real? What is it about this torturous experience that makes me want to read everything? See everything? If the world is going to talk about me, I need to know what it’s saying. A relentless feeling of ‘I need to know … I need to know.’ I wonder if this is what it feels like to be Kim Kardashian? To be fair, she’s a great example of someone who turned it around after a sex tape went viral.

I get home and search my name in Google. Just my TV credits, my Twitter account and my LinkedIn profile come up. Tara Thomas is still just a woman who makes TV shows, but not for long. For three hours straight I click REFRESH, REFRESH, REFRESH on the MailOnline website. And then, as if it happened suddenly, it’s there. My name in big, bold letters. My face looking completely fucking awful. My bright pink front door gleaming in the background. Jesus, I didn’t even know anyone had taken the picture. My life, exposed.

WALTHAMSTOW W**K WOMAN REVEALED

By Alex Mixter for MailOnline

Walthamstow W**k Woman REVEALED. Tara Thomas is a 42-year-old single mother of a 6-year-old girl who hid the existence of their child from the father.

After days of speculation, the identity of the mysterious woman who was filmed touching herself on a train before alighting at Walthamstow station last Friday night is finally revealed. The woman, who entered the underground network at Tottenham Court Road and alighted at Walthamstow, has been named as Tara Thomas, a 42-year-old single mother who never even told the child’s father that she was pregnant. A source close to Ms Thomas told the MailOnline; ‘Tara never questioned her decision to keep the baby, it was what she wanted, so she didn’t think twice. As far as she was concerned, the father didn’t need to know.’

Thomas has a history of making TV documentaries that expose the lives of individuals who do not seek public attention, but in this bizarre twist of fate she appears to have turned the tables and put herself into the spotlight. Many have speculated that this was a cry for help from a lonely woman struggling with the pressures of single motherhood. Our expert psychologist, Raj Singh, believes that this video exhibits the behaviour of a woman who is desperate to be noticed and could indicate Ms Thomas is on the edge of a nervous breakdown, a statement that appears to be corroborated by erratic behaviour at the school gate and at work. MailOnline contacted her place of work, Great Big Productions, who were keen to disassociate themselves with her actions. ‘We are a respected production company making quality programmes about modern society. We have a zero tolerance to explicit sexual activity. We are baffled as to what led one of our employees to behave this way in public. With our history of holding people accountable for their crimes in our programming, we saw it as our duty to announce her identity to the police. We now no longer work with Tara Thomas and have removed all credits from our current productions,’ says Adam Pattison, MD of Great Big Productions.

Thomas is the only child of Peter and Stephanie Thomas. She was born and raised in Walthamstow where she currently lives with her 6-year-old daughter. With no previous convictions for indecent exposure, the police will not be pressing charges at this time. Officer Flower of the Met Police says, ‘We are confident that releasing Ms Thomas without charge is the right decision. She acted out of character and in a way that she deeply regrets. This is no longer a police matter.’

Do you have any information on Tara Thomas? Contact the MailOnline news desk at …’

Who told them all of that stuff about how I had Annie? Those bitches from the school gate? Saturday is a real blur. I know I told them about the one-night stand but did I tell them I never told Nick? I can’t remember. I obviously did. Those cows. I bet it was Amanda. And what the hell does Adam mean, ‘We now no longer work with Tara Thomas and have removed all credits from our current productions’? Is he actually kidding? He better not have taken my name off the sexual harassment doc; that’s been over a year’s work for me. And what an arsehole for dobbing me into the police, just to make them sound good as a company. I can just imagine the HR meeting where they discussed how this was gross misconduct and all laughed. Well, fuck them! I hated that job and they will be utterly shite without me. And if I’m honest, I just have no fight left. How has everyone turned against me in such a short space of time? I’ve always felt like the world can’t touch me because of Mum and Dad and Annie, my team. But suddenly I feel a million miles from them too. I’m out here on my own – my existence has been reduced to a thirteen-second video that’s on a constant loop.

But now it’s not even about what I did on the train, it’s about Annie. This isn’t fair, Annie is only six, and our history is just that, history. What’s important is that she’s happy. And she is; she’s really, really happy. What if the other kids know about this? They’ll tease her and it will be all my fault. I can’t bear it. How could things have got even worse?

I promised Annie I’d pick her up and bring her home tonight, she called me to say she misses me. I feel so guilty but maybe she should stay at Mum’s another few nights. Maybe the press are outside my house, they’ll no doubt want a picture of me looking cranky and evil again. I can’t expose her to that.

‘It’s just that our names are in the paper – and they’re all hacking nowadays dear, did you not see Hugh Grant on BBC Breakfast? He was terribly angry. It feels like we are under surveillance.’

Even more guilt consumes me as I realise it isn’t just my life that’s being smashed apart by all of this.

‘Mum, please don’t worry, it’s not going to get to that. The story was the peak of the hype, it will only get calmer from here,’ I say, lying. I think this is just beginning. I hear a huge crash in the background, then a man shouting, more crashing and a smash. ‘Mum? Mum what is that, are you OK?’

‘I’m OK. That’s your father. He’s smashing things in the kitchen. He’s read the article, Tara. And he’s seen the video.’

Oh God. My dad has seen me wanking? Seriously, every time I think this can’t get more excruciating it gets taken to a whole new level.

‘I just thought he should. I’m sorry if you disagree but I thought if he just saw it for himself, then we could all work out a way to move on.’

‘Tara, I have to go. He’s into my special crockery. I’ve had it for forty years … Peter, not those, please …’

This is the worst day of my life. Hands down. I don’t know what to do. What are you supposed to do when this happens? In five days, my life has been turned upside down. This time last week I had a great job, my daughter and I were just ticking along, doing our thing, I was secure, happy. Now nearly three million people, including my mother and my father, have seen me masturbate, I’ve lost my job, I’ve been branded like a criminal for keeping a child in the way that I did. Even my work is being criticised as tabloid sensationalism, and the general attitude seems to be that I deserve all of this because of every choice I have ever made. All this from one tiny moment where I gave in to temptation. How is this possible?

I’ve never felt like a terrible mother until now. Even compared to the other mums, I’ve never felt that Annie would have been better off with anyone else as her parent. But now I’m hiding in my house and she is living streets away with my parents, probably wondering what the hell I am doing – and I have no idea how to explain it to her. She’ll be at school now telling her friends I’m not well, and the teachers will be talking in the staff room about me and what a disgrace I am. And without her even knowing, they will be watching her, waiting for her to do something reactive so they can blame me for messing up my daughter’s head.

I can’t let this happen. No matter what people are saying and how much I want to crawl into the cupboard under the sink and drink all of the household cleaning products, I have to keep my shit together, for Annie.

I’ll go food shopping. I’ll fill the fridge and cupboard up with all of our favourite things and I’ll pick her up from school with my head held high and we will continue to live our lives. Cam was right, I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I can take control. I can write the life I want to live. I’ll find another job, maybe something online. I could do surveys, or be an examiner. One of those jobs where you just get sent a load of stuff that needs checking. I’ll sell things on eBay, antique jewellery. Maybe I’ll even design some, I’ve always wanted to do that. I don’t know, I’ll work it out. What’s the alternative? There isn’t one. I have to pull my shit together. For my daughter.

I race to the front door and leave the house before I have the chance to second guess myself. I’m met with cameras. ‘Tara Thomas?’ says a loud voice as a bright flash goes off in my face. As my retinas re-focus, I see a camera pointing right at me, a man behind it, his face scrunched up as he peers down the lens.

‘Why did you do it, Tara?’ he says, as I see another man run up behind him, also with a camera. More flashes, more clicks. My ears pop like I’m on a plane and my vision goes blurry from the lights.

‘I, I …’ I stop speaking. Pram Push Woman comes into my head, her dumb quote, ‘I just wanted to see what happened’ flashing in front of me like a ticker of BREAKING NEWS on the TV. I know I mustn’t say anything.

I power through, like I’m walking through rolling waves that are coming over my head. I lead with my left shoulder, keep my head down to protect my eyes and I charge and keep charging. The local Tesco is only a few minutes away. They can’t follow me in there, eventually the flashing lights will stop and I’ll walk up and down the aisles and I’ll get all of the things that Annie likes best. KitKats, Monster Munch, Edam cheese. I’ll be ready for when she finishes school, and we will get on with our lives and eventually all of this will be over.

But these men are so close to me. It feels like they’re going to push me to the floor. I keep going. Tesco is close. I can get there. They’ll disappear, these men, because I’ll make them disappear.

When I reach Tesco, the silence that surrounds me as the doors close again makes me feel like I’m in a dream. I walk forward like I’m on a conveyor belt and sense multiple other shoppers glancing at me, but I’m scared to look up in case they look me in the eye. Being looked at directly isn’t something I can deal with quite yet.

I turn a corner, someone walks past me and knocks my basket. They say sorry and carry on walking, I don’t turn to see if they look back but I presume that they do. I’m hunched over, I must look very weird.

Someone else bangs into me, or did I bang into them? This time, they get annoyed. ‘Watch it,’ they say, but I don’t turn to look at them, I just keep going forward. Am I walking, or is the floor moving? I turn another corner. The beep beep beep of the tills gets louder. More people, now standing still in a row. Something about the stillness worries me, they are so close to me, they do not move. The cold air turns fiery hot and I feel sweat start to pour down my face. I’m sure I hear laughter. ‘It’s her, look it’s her.’ More laughter. Is everyone in Tesco laughing at me? I’m so hot and my chest is closing, the lights become so bright I close my eyes just enough to see the basket over my arm. My heartbeat is suddenly so loud that I can hear it over the beep beep beep and there is a pain across my body that makes my head throw itself back and then a bang so hard that the lights shut down and the people disappear and the noises fade away and then everything is gone.

My eyes blink quickly as they adjust to the very bright lights above my head. Just as they are coming into focus, the silhouette of my mother’s face appears above me. ‘Mum, why are you in Tesco?’ I ask, acknowledging the coincidence, despite my drowsy state.

‘You’re not in Tesco, dear,’ Mum says, stroking my hair. ‘You’re in the hospital.’

I sit up much faster than my body can handle, my head thumps and I lie straight back down. ‘What happened?’

‘The doctor thinks maybe you had a panic attack, then you hit your head on the way down. You’ve been asleep for a few hours now. He thinks maybe you are exhausted?’

I remind myself that I have barely slept since Monday, and nod gently. I go to touch my face and see there is a tube in my arm. I don’t know if it’s real but my face feels so small.

‘It’s a drip,’ my mother tells me. ‘He says you’re severely dehydrated. Your blood sugar was so low, like you hadn’t eaten for days.’

My mother pushes another pillow behind my back so that I can sit up more. She takes a while to respond.

‘Not great, but it all comes from love. He’s worried about you, of course.’

‘After seeing videos of his daughter masturbating? When was the last time he came around to that?’

She pours some water into two plastic cups and takes a sip from one as she stares at a painting, clearly building the confidence to say something rather than experiencing the art.

‘The school called me today,’ she says, turning to me. I sense the call wasn’t to pass on their regards.

‘I told them that you were fine. But that you were under a lot of pressure.’

‘Why did you tell them that, Mum? I’m not under any pressure. At least, I wasn’t.’

‘They needed a reason, Tara. I had to say there was something going on that led you to do that, otherwise they’d think it was just who you are. So I said you’d been under a lot of pressure at work, had a few too many drinks one night, which you very rarely do because you usually have Annie, and that you did something that you hugely regret.’

Despite me wanting it all just to go away, for people to accept it and move on, I still find myself feeling so angry about having to claim madness or apologise for simply responding to a sexual urge when I thought I was alone. I turn away and close my eyes. My head still really hurts.

‘They are worried about Annie,’ she continues, ‘So I said that she would be living with me and your father for the foreseeable future, and they agreed that was a sensible idea. She’s a good girl, they don’t want to cause any trouble for you or her.’

‘I’m a good mum,’ I say, my face soaking wet, lips quivering as I try to stop the tears, in a vain attempt to hide my pain.

‘Why don’t you come and stay too?’ Mum says, carefully. She knows that offering me too much help and suggesting I need it can often cause tension. But not this time. I need to be a mum, and I need my mum to be one too.