There was no space – not round their way, no artist studios to speak of. And she liked to work big – the kind of thing you had to stand back from to really see. She negotiated the box room at the top of the stairs – where their youngest used to sleep – but if she stretched out both arms she could touch the opposite walls. She taught herself to work small, because at least that was working. She found ways of joining all those small things together. Wire. Glue. Tape. Thread. She called it jigsawing, put a brave face on it. She dreamt though, of a space with white walls and tall windows, where there weren’t any edges. A place where there were other people who saw the world the way she did, or at least didn’t pull the kind of face her mother did, peering into the box room on her way back from the bathroom, asking what it meant without really wanting to know.

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