I wanted to hug her so tightly both of us would lose our breath, but I knew it would be too much. For both of us. Instead, I stepped into the cool, dark confines of the shed and rested a hand on one of the handlebars.

“It’s amazing,” I whispered.

Then I turned to look at my parents and they were so bright, standing there in the morning light. Dad had put his arm around Mum and they were looking at me and smiling, like they were the mum and dad of my dreams come to life. I wanted the moment to last forever.

It was the one and only time I saw any sign of affection between my parents. It was also the one and only time I felt noticed. As the sun shone and my parents smiled, I experienced a brief and fleeting moment of love.

13

I call in sick the day after my conversation with Elliot, telling my boss I’ve got a head cold. If only it were true. I recognize my symptoms for what they are, though I’ve never allowed myself to put a name to it. Lethargy, excessive sleepiness, lack of appetite, a dullness to my senses. I stay in bed for three days, rising to go to the bathroom, or sit on the couch to watch a movie, or get a handful of biscuits from the pantry. I try to eat an apple, but it tastes acidic and foreign. I throw it in the bin after the first bite.

My phone stays on silent. I look at it once or twice and see the missed calls from my friends, so I send them a quick message:

Snowed under with work. Talk later.

It usually does the trick.

I don’t shower or change out of my pyjamas. I don’t speak to anyone, especially my growing baby. What can I say to it without sounding weak and pathetic?

On my fourth morning at home, I open my curtains and let the sun warm my face. Although I don’t want to, I force myself to have a shower, wash my hair, put on some clothes. Then I get back into bed in my T-shirt and trackpants, and sleep.

At lunchtime, I drag myself out of bed and make a fried egg on toast. It tastes good, which I take as a reassuring sign. So much so, I venture as far as the back porch. I sit on the top step in the sun and look at my little garden. Weeds have sprouted around my camellias, the roses need deadheading and the trailing rosemary could benefit from a trim. I slip on my wellingtons and walk round to the side of the house to my shed. I collect my gloves, weeding tool and secateurs, and clump across the grass to the roses I planted the week I moved in.