Mum found the tartan skirt at an op shop. She approached me with it gingerly, like I was some kind of feral cat. Fair. At nineteen years old, I was closer to that than any other species. 

 

The tartan skirt was a peace offering, although Mum never put it in those words. Neither of us knew it at the time, but I was weeks away from moving out. It was for the best. I was a teenage terror; a professional victim with a snarly pout and perma-rolled eyes. I'd ensnare Mum in shouting matches that shook the walls, then slam the front door by way of goodbye. Why shouldn't I treat the house I'd been raised in like a motel? Why should I tell my mother - the person who gave me the life I was living so carelessly - that I wouldn't be home on any given night? 

 

I never deigned to cook dinner, but I would stumble in drunk at 2am and make poached eggs - leaving the dregs for Mum and the ants.

 

I was wrong, of course. So wrong. It only took a month or two of share-housing for me to see that.

 

*

 

Back to the skirt. The night Mum gave it to me, she caught me in the sweet spot between skulking in with a hangover, and skulking out with my head in my phone. I was on the stairs when she handed it over, wariness written all over her face. "I found this at Salvos today. Thought you might like it." 

 

Memory warps my response. I would like to think I was effusive with gratitude, but in all likelihood I probably just grunted "thanks" and beat a hasty retreat to my bedroom. Still, I loved it - delighting in how well the skirt paired with my pre-loved Doc Martens and red lippy. I was deep in my grunge phase, and Mum's tartan-patterned peace offering made me feel seen. 

 

Something about my Mum: she's so gently spoken that my best friend calls her 'Angel Voice'. Angel Voice was never one for grunge, or punk, or metal (certainly not that). She loathes tattoos and body piercings, enduring my own collection with pretty good humour, all things considered. While we share the same dark hair, blue-grey eyes and freckles, when it comes to style, we are a photo negative of each other. 

 

All of this is what made the skirt so miraculous.

 

The frost between us began thawing the moment Mum saw it hanging on the rack and thought of me. Heaven knows I didn't deserve a gift. But with her deep knowledge of who I was - beyond the bratty teenager, the shy little girl, the woman she hoped I would one day be - there lay a message of understanding, in a few scratchy folds of fabric. 

 

*

 

In what feels like a matter of seconds, fifteen years passed. I wore the skirt for many of them, until the clasp gave out. I don't know that Mum ever knew just how much I wore it; what a staple it became. I guess this is my way of telling her. My own message of understanding.

 

I love you, Mum. Thank you for the skirt.