She wipes her cheeks and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. “Leanne thinks you may have post-natal depression. Apparently, it’s more common in people who already suffer from a depressive disorder.”

“I’m not depressed,” I state. “I just have down days sometimes.”

“Trish, yesterday wasn’t just a down day, and you know it.”

I glance back at Rose, willing her to wake. My breasts are leaking just thinking about feeding her. I press my palm against the edge of my breast, hoping it’ll somehow ease the pressure.

“God, my boobs hurt.”

Emma nods. “I’ll get the nurse so you can express.” She hurries from the room.

I stare at Rose and have this strange sensation she’s not my baby. There’s been a mistake. A mix-up. This baby looks like Rose but she isn’t – she’s an imposter.

Emma returns with a nurse, who drags behind her a contraption on squeaking wheels. She shows me how it works and before long, I’m being milked by a machine making a loud humming sound. I’m surprised the noise doesn’t wake Rose, but she’s oblivious. The relief as my breasts start to deflate is indescribably good.

“That should be enough,” says the nurse, who introduced herself as Jodi. “We want to leave plenty for little Rosie here.”

My eyes widen. Why would she do that? Change my baby’s name. It’s Rose. No one has called her Rosie and if I have my way, no one ever will.

“Rose,” I say firmly. “Not Rosie.”

The nurse apologizes, though she looks in no way sorry, before dragging the breast pump machine behind her out of the room.

Emma is looking at me funny. It’s as if she’s nervous, afraid of me even.

“Your mum’s here,” she blurts.

“What?”

“She’s waiting in the corridor. Your brother called her.”

“Why?”

“He was worried about you.”

“Why would he call Mum?”

Emma perches on the bed and squeezes my arm. “I think you should talk to her, Trish. Please.”

“I don’t want to see her. I’ve got enough to deal with.”

“I’ve just spent an hour talking with her and I think you should hear what she has to say.”

“I don’t even know why she bothered coming. She doesn’t care about me, Em. She never has.”

“I don’t know what she was like as a mum, Trish, because you never talked about it, but I still think you should listen to her. And for the record, I think she does care, very much.”

Frowning, I stare at Rose. I still feel strangely disconnected from her. Disconnected from Emma, too. It’s like I’m going through the motions of being in this room, without fully being here.

“OK,” I whisper.

“Thanks.” Emma squeezes my hand. “I’ll go and get her.”