The living room’s a bit of a mess. The house phone is on the floor. Dad said Mum called the ambulance herself. She could tell something was happening to her. The coffee table has been shoved aside – that must have been the paramedics. Then there’s papers scattered all over, and a big beige stain has ruined the white carpet. Coffee. Mum never drank anything else. Her mug – the posh floral one I got her for her birthday – stands upright on the table.

The papers look like a report from one of Mum’s cases. I gather them up, careful to make sure they’re stacked in order. If Mum gets home she’ll . . .

When . . . I think instead. Because Mum’s going to be OK. I know she is.

There’s a bunch of post by the door that must’ve been delivered after Mum went into hospital: some letters and a delivery card. I put them on the table too.

Next, I make my way to the kitchen.

I almost can’t go inside when I see the table set for two, and the remnants of the meal Mum was cooking laid out on the counter. My heart lurches. I should’ve been there. She thought I was still going to come over. Or maybe she hoped.

Some of it has been put away, like someone’s tried to tidy after her, but they didn’t do it properly, and the smell of herbs still lingers.

Mum’s always been a messy cook; it drove Dad up the wall. He usually did all the cooking, and he could never quite handle it whenever she insisted that it was her turn. He would hover, cleaning up behind her. Dad is all about order. Mum was . . . is . . . free.

I decide to finish the tidying. When I’m done and everything looks normal again I stand and look around, feeling a little strange, like I’m trespassing.

Like in the dream.

What have I come here to do?

I think back to the man at the hospital with his tartan blanket and his books, and then stare around Mum’s flat. What shall I take in for her?

I think of the mug on the table, but she can’t exactly use it, can she?

In the end I settle for a throw she always keeps on the sofa, covered in yellow flowers, and a worn-out cushion that’s shaped like a fox. That’ll make her hospital room prettier, won’t it?

I decide to try her bedroom next. As soon as I walk in her signature perfume envelops me. It’s musky: some sort of wood, rose and maybe orange? It smells like comfort and childhood and home. But I daren’t touch it. It’s too special.

Instead I reach for her hand cream. Mum was always moisturizing her hands. She would offer me some every time, but I always refused.