Since the stitches from the surgery had been removed, I often found myself stroking the scar on my chest. Fingers sneaking unnoticed down the neck of my sweater, touching the 15 centimetres of pink, slightly raised tissue that sliced my chest wall in two. The scar lay between my breasts and stretched up towards the collar bones, not near enough that I had to wear a turtleneck to hide it, but so close that I threw out all my old tops. It reminded me of my grandma, who’d had her sliced up chest...