A few people to turn to look at me and I recognize their faces. Ghosts from my past. People I knew but never knew. Acquaintances of my parents, work colleagues of Dad’s. I drop my head to avoid their stares and shuffle over so Will can sit beside me.

“If Dad were here, he’d be accusing you of making a spectacle of yourself, showing up pregnant,” Will whispers.

I raise my eyebrows. “Do you think I give a shit?” I whisper.

Will smiles. “Nope. And nor should you.”

James appears in the aisle beside us. “Family are seated in the front row,” he mutters.

“We’re comfortable with right here,” Will says loudly.

More faces turn towards us.

I’ve spied the back of Mum’s head. I can tell it’s her by the way she sits: timidly, as if she’s afraid of taking up too much space.

James glares at us, his cheeks glowing, then he marches to the front row and sits beside a woman I presume is his wife.

The service is mercifully short. We stand to sing a hymn, the minister gives a short drone about Dad being an upstanding, hard-working citizen. A guy in full military attire and a chest full of medals talks about Dad’s services to the army and James reads a small section of the Bible. Mum doesn’t move for the entire twenty minutes. No one does. Even in death, Dad has everyone well-trained, or at least nervous about his disapproval.

Will and I stand as James leads the procession of guests out of the church and I manage a quick assessment of his wife as she follows him. Even though I was at their wedding, I barely remember her. Clare is short, trim, immaculately dressed and wears the same wary expression I recall seeing on anyone’s face when they stood within arm’s distance of Dad. Following them are two young boys with their heads down, their hands clasped behind their backs.

Will leans towards me and whispers in my ear. “Our nephews, Jonathan and Benedict.”

I’ve heard him but can’t respond, because Mum’s behind the boys and she’s stopped walking and is staring at me.

“Trish,” she whispers, her eyes wide.

Then her eyes flit to Will.

“Hi, Mum,” says Will.

He steps forwards and puts his arms around her for a fraction of a second before letting her go. He hasn’t given her time to hug him back, even if she wanted.

I stay rooted to the spot. Mum catches sight of my stomach, audibly gasps and turns away to cough. She hacks away till the person behind her, who I recognize as a cousin, pats Mum on the back at the same time as she propels her forward and out of the church.