" She was a good pianist but too undisciplined, our grandmother said. But Mother sent her back for the gloves and to fix her stocking, which had slipped down her leg, showing the skin between her hem and the stocking top, which, of course, wouldn’t do. I went with her when I saw the thunderclouds in her face. I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it, she hissed to me, as we walked, and she was walking faster than usual so I had almost to run to keep up. These rules, these ridiculous rules, how is anyone supposed to remember them all? It’s only a pair of gloves, I said, I did remind you as we were leaving the house. But she was furious, always chafing at the bit, she was. And we couldn’t find the gloves, of course. Or we could find only one. I forget. I know we looked everywhere. I can’t think of everything, I said to her, as we searched, because she was forever losing one or the other and it was always up to me to remember them for myself and for her and I had begun— "

― Maggie O'Farrell , The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox