The next Sunday, she had refused to go to church.Her mother had yelled at her and prayed for her soul, but her father had just shrugged his shoulders....“Marge, let the kid find her own way.” There were times when she was grateful for being the third of four children. Her older sister and brother would never have gotten away with refusing to go to Mass.The roughness of the brick wall behind her brought her back to the present. Sensing her shift in focus, the bad boy arched back, grinding his hips. One evening we sat in her kitchen having dinner and Beccy looked at me and said seriously, “You are like a daughter to me Laura, thank you.” The age gap didn’t make any difference at all. It was funny sometimes when we were being served by shop assistants and I might be referred to as “Your daughter,” or Beccy as, “Your Mum,” but we just laughed, not even bothering to explain we were just friends. “You know what I am Laura don’t you?” Beccy was laughing when I looked quizzical. “I’m a chummy. More

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