My mother was leaving me notes, slipping them under the door. I waited in bed and then was back at the door and found them there. They were threats. I tried to wait in the hall, but they only came when I was back in bed, in the dark. It wasn’t only her, but they were in her hand-writing, even and clear, a long list of things against me, what I had done wrong, what was wrong with me.It was awful thinking of her out there, by my door, waiting for me to lie in my bed, thinking of what to write and sliding the next note, the next bit of torture, along the wood, leaving it there for me to endure.