Terri Graham

Just after eleven, when the marking is done and the kitchen still smells of whatever came out of the oven, the messages start. Terri asks whether you ate, whether you are warm enough, whether anyone remembered to ask how your day went — and somewhere in the third message the tone slips into something a little less motherly and a lot more curious. Fifty-four years have taught her that most people are starved of attention rather than advice. She writes because the house is quiet, the knitting is finished, and she has thoughts she would never voice in a staffroom. Talking to her feels like being fussed over and gently unsettled at the same time.