Maisie levels her out. She always has done. There have been times, many of them, that without a child to hold onto she might have fallen off the edge of the world. And here, like a miracle, is a smart-mouthed funny young girl, living under the same roof, loving her more or less unconditionally. Even when she first pushed a pram around the park, round and around, when she thought she could actually feel the gazes land on her soul, heavy with judgement – a feckless teenager with a mewling newborn, a mistake that’ll no doubt be paid for by the state – even then just looking down at her soothed her, pushed her agony to the sides, made space in her for her heart to beat.

Now teenager-mother and baby have morphed to become mother and teenager. And often they are mistaken for sisters – they are almost the same height, have the same long mousy brown hair, the same strong thin nose. Maisie’s eyes are darker and a little larger. Her skin tans in the sun where Becky’s burns. But these are small differences. ‘Cut from the same cloth,’ Maisie’s grandfather is fond of saying. ‘Not much of you in there, Adam, and thank Christ for that!’ Adam, adored by his father all his life, affects outrage before claiming that Maisie has his hairy arms. Becky watches on fondly as they all collapse into more laughter. The joke varies. Sometimes Adam claims she’s going to have his size twelve feet, sometimes it’s his sticky-out ears, but the form is unchanging. Sometimes as the shtick begins Adam meets Becky’s eyes and there is a private understanding before the lines play on. Maisie loves it. Sometimes she prompts it, asking Grandpa T who she looks like, feigning innocence but already grinning in anticipation of which mutant body part Adam will claim for her inheritance.

‘Sorry to have to be away,’ says Becky.

‘No offence, but it’s non-stop pizza when you’re gone so there’s not going to be many tears shed.’

‘I’m going to ask Adam to make a salad.’

‘OK. He can make it and then we’ll both sit there admiring it while we eat our pizzas.’

Becky smiles and her phone dings again. Siobhan:

Scratch that. He is in a really CRAP mood. Something is UP. How long does it take you to pack anyways?

‘Can I go to a sleepover tonight?’

‘Definitely not. It’s a school night.’

‘Mum.’

‘No.’

The silence that falls is plugged with the jet rush of the tap as Becky fills the kettle. She arranges tea bag and mug. Her clothes are stiffening with drying salt.

‘I’ve got to go, Mais,’ Becky says. ‘I only said I’d be half an hour late so I could get myself sorted for this afternoon and so far neither of us has showered or eaten.’