I stop in the hallway and take a deep breath. This is going to be harder than I thought.

“Maybe you could write me a list of things you need,” says Mum, poking her head out of her room.

I focus on keeping my voice relaxed. “I was going to go in the morning.”

“Well, now I can save you the trouble.”

This does not bode well. I warned Mum before she moved in that I wouldn’t cope with her trying to do things for me.

“You’re moving in as backup,” I’d explained. “Temporary backup.”

“Trish,” Mum says, reading my face. “I’d like to get a few things for myself. I’m going to the supermarket anyway, so if there are certain items you’d like me to get, I can. That’s all.”

Maybe I’m overreacting. I’ve always been in charge of every part of my life. I’ve had to be. And I’m not ready to relinquish that control, especially to Mum. She’s let me down so many times, I’m not about to allow her back in that easily.

“I’m going in the morning anyway,” I say firmly. “It’ll be my first outing with Rose.”

Mum looks like she’s about to argue but changes her mind.

“OK.” She shrugs. “But I was hoping I might cook tonight, if that’s all right with you?”

“Emma made a lasagne, remember? Lily’s joining us.”

“Oh, right, I’d forgotten.”

Ignoring her crestfallen face, I head into Rose’s room to change her nappy.

*

Once Mum leaves for the supermarket and I’ve got Rose down for a sleep, I can’t resist the patch of sun on my bed. It’s beckoning me to lie down. I decide to rest, just for a few minutes before I put a load of washing on. Within seconds, I feel myself drifting off.

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Scott sitting in the feeding chair, knitting. His face is lowered and he’s concentrating on his work, knitting needles clacking together. The wool is a deep burgundy red and it’s coming from a flax bag at his feet. I lie still, watching.

His thick dark hair is up in a ponytail, as it was on the plane the first time we met. He’s grown a short beard and it makes him look like he should be on the cover of some National Geographic magazine. A mountaineer or wildlife photographer. Instead, he’s knitting – not exactly an extreme sport.

Scott pauses and glances over at me. When his dark eyes meet mine, I catch my breath.

“Hi,” he says softly. “Your mum let me in. I hope it’s OK. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” I murmur. “I wondered when I was going to see you.”