I can feel the monster crawl up through my ribcage, the way it does when my blood starts to boil. I swallow it down, along with the panic, and it slides back into the pit of my stomach. I can almost feel the thud as it lands, making me nauseated.

The nurse sits back down again, but instead of speaking to me she resumes typing. Then she folds her arms and looks up at me. ‘Can I help?’ she finally asks.

‘My mum’s in that room,’ I explain, pointing behind me. ‘She was just moved over, I think. But there’s something important that’s gone missing –’

‘If you would like to file a complaint, you’ll have to go online and –’

I frown at her. ‘It’s not that,’ I snap, clenching my teeth together to bite the irritation down. ‘I left it in the drawer in her old room. I just wondered whether there was any way to go and get it?’

‘Well, I’m afraid you can’t go into a ward unless you’re a visitor,’ she says.

I wait for her to continue, to offer a solution, but she doesn’t.

‘I know that,’ I say slowly, trying to keep calm. ‘I just wondered when we would be able to get it back?’

‘I’ll have to check with one of the nurses,’ she says, turning back to her computer.

I wait. She doesn’t say anything else.

‘Did you want to know what ward it was on?’ I ask.

‘That would be an idea.’ The woman smiles, but it’s not very kind. I notice the name on her badge: Sue.

I tell her and a couple of minutes later, after she makes a quick call, Sue says, ‘One of the nurses is going to have a look and bring it over when they can.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, even as my insides are screaming.

So, all I can to do now is wait.

Back in the room I sit back down next to Mum. I look at her, realizing I haven’t done that in a while; I’ve been too preoccupied with Aminah.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I begin. My voice is a little hoarse. For some reason there are tears in my eyes almost immediately, like they’d been waiting for the right moment to fall. ‘Mum, I’m sorry.’

I think of all the things I have to be sorry for, and it drags up emotions I had buried, like seashells at the bottom of the ocean. For not visiting her that day or sending her a message. For not taking the time to talk to her, hug her. For making her feel jealous of Dad. For treating our weekly visits like a chore. Finally I know what it is I need to say. It’s simple. ‘I’m sorry I’ve pushed you away all these years.’