I’m at the airport in Brisbane, on my way to Melbourne for a writing event when Mum calls.
‘So that’s why you wouldn’t tell me the subject of your next book,’ she says right away.
Her tone tells me she’s seen the video my girlfriend shared on Facebook.
‘What do you mean?’ I say, trying to put off the inevitable.
‘You’re writing about your life growing up here. About your family.’
‘Yeah. That’s part of it.’
‘And when were you planning to tell me about this? It’s all over the internet so I’m the last to know as usual. Does your father know too?’
I can’t think of a response that doesn’t sound like I’ve been trying to hide the subject of my next book from her, so I say nothing.
‘Low socio-economic? Do you know what that word means, Rebecca? It means housing commission. Trash. You did not grow up that way. You grew up in nice houses, my house was always clean.’
I try to reason with her. I tell her that I have a different understanding of the term, but she won’t listen.
‘Low socio-economic!’ she laughs. ‘Wait until your grandmother hears about this.’
I have the phone half pressed to my ear, looking up at the departure board, figuring out how much longer until I can politely excuse myself from the conversation.
‘Why would you want to write about some of the worst parts of my life?’ she says, exasperated. ‘I’ve moved on, I’ve gotten over it. Why would you make me relive it all again?’
I can tell now that she doesn’t understand. She has no idea. This story isn’t hers, it’s mine. She just happens to be one of the main characters. And at this point, she’s shaping up to be a fine antagonist.
I tell her that I have to go, that my flight is boarding.

Later that day, after I’ve spent my flight fretting, after I’ve debriefed with my girlfriend, I realise that Mum is scared. Someone in her life has the power to force her back to places that perhaps she’d rather not return to. By writing about my childhood in Western Sydney, I will almost certainly stumble across some of the darker memories of that time. Mum is in all of these, physically or not. I am writing a version of our lives that she may not wish to acknowledge. That she can’t acknowledge.