I tell my mother I will be living with Judith for a week or so. She looks up at me with pitiful large eyes, and stops mid-knit (the scarf I asked her to help me start, the scarf she is sabotaging).

You’re not at home for that much longer, you know! she says reproachfully. A week…!

She is referring to me starting university. I remind her there is a whole year to go.

She says, Not quite, it’s not one year. No, not at all! and shakes her head to and fro. She has decided to take on the stance of the incensed. She resumes knitting with a ferocity that wasn’t there earlier.

One year minus two weeks, I tell her gently. It is necessary to be gentle when discussing university matters.

The clack clack of the knitting needles, my knitting needles, slows down. It reminds me of a runner with stitch. A tear plops onto my grey wool. I will not be able to wear this scarf without feeling guilty.

If indeed it is wearable when finished, after I have mangled it with my tight-loose-tight rows of alternating knit and purl, knit and purl, and when it goes wrong, knit, purl, purl.