By Angela Gallagher
WIMBLEDON always reminded her of her parents. They’d go as often as they could; her mum always in that awful, bright multicoloured cardi.
“So your father can find me if we get separated.”
She’d sat down in anticipation to watch the match: cup of coffee, piece of cake – bliss. But rain stopped play so it was a rerun of that famous Borg/McEnroe bruiser. Fine, she’d never seen it.
But then there was a flash of colour in the crowd. She peered. No doubt: her mother – young and slim.
It couldn’t be, not that date.
The day she was born.
©Angela Gallagher 2016