I’m 38 and my mother asked me last Easter when I was going to give her grandchildren, and I told her I wasn’t going to, and the silence at the table wasn’t anger — it was the quiet recognition by everyone in the family that the woman who had spent fifty years performing the joy of motherhood had just been told by her daughter that the performance hadn’t been convincing

I want to write about an Easter lunch that happened in my parents' house in London, last spring, and about a particular silence that arrived at the table somewhere between the lamb and the dessert. The silence is what I want to describe, because it's the most important thing ...Read More





