Among the myriad things I doubt my mother realises reminds me of her is the embroidered coat hanger.

The hangers with the delicate, lace cloth, designed to protect. The ones handmade with personal touches no global chain would bother with because, just like a lifetime of maternal love, if you are lucky, it is sewn with the same kind of slow, attentive care.

Sometimes, when I spot a row of them lined up in my closet, I fleetingly imagine a time when she will no longer be able to cushion my life with the same consistent abundance of warmth I once naively assumed everyone had.

As a young adult, I admit I took for granted such Christmas stocking fillers, or other small surprises of daily thoughtfulness, along with the kind of exceptional nurturing that covered not just wardrobe essentials but all my emotional needs.

Or perhaps I once felt some sort of “hanger apathy” because, not only does my mother not share my disdain for needle crafts, there are also so many other unaligned threads of our lives we often laugh about.

She grew up in the Sydney suburbs of post-second world war austerity and, now 88, has been........

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