Mum had left us food in the fridge so I made some cheese on toast and went to sit on the bench in the garden where I told myself it would be OK, I’d manage. I would.

Later that night, I went to the downstairs loo. Mum must have been in there before she left because I could still smell her perfume, Chanel No 5, powdery and light. I realized that the scent would fade then disappear just as she just had. But what really got me was that in all the packing and last-minute panic, preparing for their new life abroad, Mum hadn’t bought any loo paper for the downstairs cloakroom and there wasn’t any. It was then that I realized I really was on my own: no one was going to take care of me any more, fill the cupboards, buy the necessaries. My mum was gone.

I sat on the loo and sobbed my heart out.

The next day felt strange too, getting up; no familiar smell of toast and coffee from the kitchen, Radio Four playing as Mum got everyone sorted for the day.

The feelings didn’t last long. Yes, I was sad that they’d gone, but I also knew that I was liberated. No one to answer to, ask if I’d been to Mass, done my homework, tidied my room, got in late. No one to tell me I wore too much make-up, my skirts were too short, tops too revealing. No one to question my friends, my taste in music, how long I’d been on the phone. And, best of all, Marcia would be moving in.

The family house was a four-storey, Edwardian build, with five bedrooms and a basement. The plan was to let the empty rooms to lodgers – students mainly. Marcia was one of them and we both had places at art college. It was summer in the city. Life was great.