“I know you’re strong, determined, and that you hide your emotions for fear of being thought of as weak. Weak like me.”

I shake my head and clench my jaw. I will not cry in front of this person. I won’t.

Rose begins to whimper and I lurch out of bed, shove past Mum and pick up my baby. Pretending my mother is no longer in the room, I unhook my maternity bra and press Rose to my breast. I stroke her head as I watch her drink.

“Your Grammy Rose, she tried to help me,” says Mum. “Several times she arranged for me to see her doctor so I could explain how hard I was finding everything, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t talk because I was scared and embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone, even a doctor, to see how sad and pathetic I was.”

I act as if I haven’t heard a word Mum’s said.

“When I ended up in hospital after what your father called my ‘breakdown’, you went to stay with your gran, remember?”

I give a fraction of a nod. As if I’d ever forget the one time in my childhood when I felt truly happy and safe.

“She loved having you live with her. She asked if you could stay longer, but your father wanted you home. He…” Mum takes a deep, shuddering breath. “He wanted you home to take care for me, your brothers, the household. But you were still a child. It wasn’t fair, Trish. I should have insisted you stay with your grandmother, who loved you and cared for you the way you deserved.”

Rose is a watery blur as I blink over and over, willing myself to hold it together. My throat is too sore to speak, not that I have anything to say.

“Emma tells me you named Rose after her. She’d have loved that, Trish. I… I wish I hadn’t… I wish she’d been in our lives more.”

I refuse to react to Mum’s anguished voice.

She perches on the bed and reaches up to stroke my hair back off my face gently.

“Trish, honey, why are you here?”

My tears can’t be contained as they slip down my cheeks. “Because it’s hard to keep fighting it,” I say with a choke.

Mum pulls my head onto her shoulder and begins to cry. “I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I’m so endlessly sorry I haven’t been there for you. But I can help, Trish, if you’ll let me.”

“I’m n-not depressed,” I stammer. “I refuse to be.”

Mum rubs my back in small circular motions, the way I suddenly recall her doing when I was five years old and lying in bed feeling miserable after having had my tonsils removed. I’d completely forgotten about that moment until now.