‘What about Da’s, Ma?’

Molly turned away and made her way to the sink to make noise, clanging pans and splashing water. Grace would not be deterred.

‘Ma?’ She picked up a towel, ready to receive a clean pan.

‘They didn’t use the word, no one really talked about anything back then, especially not sickness and death, and your da was only a child when his mother died,’ Molly said.

‘Cancer?’ Grace said.

‘His father wouldn’t say, so we can only surmise.’

Grace’s heart sank. ‘What age was she?’

‘Early thirties, I think,’ Molly said.

‘So there is cancer in the family.’

‘We can’t be sure. Besides, you’re older than both of them when they were diagnosed.’

‘It doesn’t work like that, Ma!’

‘Well, your da doesn’t have cancer, does he?’

‘No, Ma, he doesn’t but that’s not the point!’

‘You don’t have the gene, Grace, and I don’t want to hear mention of it again.’

And that was the end of the conversation. Grace pushed it to the back of her mind where it resided, chipping away at her little by little as the cancer ate away at her sister, but when it became clear that Rabbit was incurable Grace decided to go for it. She said nothing to no one, thought it better to keep it to herself. If the result proved negative there would be no reason to mention it. The waiting list was long. It took over a year to get the appointment; when it finally came through the door she reconsidered even attending but in the end, and after six weeks of mental torment, Grace felt she had no option but to take the test. It took all her courage to walk through that door. She tried to self-soothe. It was probably going to be fine.

Except now it wasn’t fine. Rabbit was dead and she had the gene. She was perimenopausal and she had the gene. She had four boys, the youngest only nine, and she had the gene. She had done none of the things she’d planned on doing, like fly a plane or climb a mountain or even work in a job she was passionate about, and she had the bloody, fudging, flipping gene. She lay on her bedroom floor for two hours, terrorised. She heard Lenny walk up the stairs so she dragged herself to her feet and hid in the bathroom, running water, washing her tear-stained face.

Lenny popped his head around the door.

‘Did you sleep, love?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ she lied. He turned her around to look at her. He felt her forehead.

‘Ryan’s right, you look like shite.’

I have the gene.

‘I hope you’re not coming down with anything.’

I have the gene.

‘My sister just died.’ I have the gene.

‘I know, love,’ he said, and he took her in his arms and hugged her close.