‘You should’ve told us you had a condition.’

‘It’s just low blood sugar.’

‘The doctor says it hypoglycaemia.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Tea?’ The nun gestures to the tray with its teapot and dainty china cups, a delicate daisy pattern dancing on their surface.

‘No thank you.’

Sister Anne pours the rich golden brew in silence, her concentration intense. She slowly adds the milk, stirring with full presence – a ritual that seems somehow holy. I consider telling her about the baby calves separated from their mothers at only a few days old, both mother and baby crying themselves hoarse. I study the nun’s relaxed face, her evident savouring of the contents of the cup, and decide against it.

‘Scone?’

I shake my head.

Sister Anne stops her stirring. ‘Are you really finding it so difficult in here, Sonya?’

How can I tell this woman of my latest mind loop: my son and his best friend being ripped from each other? Catastrophising, the guys call it.

‘I haven’t touched a drop in a month, Sister.’

‘But it’s bigger than that, Sonya, this addictive state. You still seem to be fighting everything – the “system”, as you see it.’

‘I’m sober. Isn’t that the point of being here?’

‘Have you found any relief in prayer?’

How honest can I be?

‘I don’t know who I’m praying to.’

‘Does that really matter, Sonya? Think of prayer as a bridge between longing and belonging.’

I quite like that concept, abstract and romantic as it is.

‘Or another way of looking at it: think of it as a transformational current.’

I wonder why they don’t give us this kind of context before shoving us into large groups of people incanting words that have no meaning for them.

As if reading my mind she says, ‘The literal meaning of the prayer doesn’t really matter; what matters is the line of communication you open up, the connection with a Higher Power.’

‘But Sister, how can the rosary have any relevance for people in the modern world?’

I wonder have I pushed it too far. She seems to give this some thought.

‘The Hail Mary can be a portal to your Divine Mother. Think of it that way.’

The word ‘Mother’ brings about a complicated reaction in me: a grief, I think, a judgement, definitely.

Sister Anne continues: ‘Have you made a connection between your addiction and a severed belonging, Sonya?’

Severed belonging. I immediately think of Tommy.

‘Sister, I’m seriously worried about my own child.’

‘You’re here, Sonya. That is the best thing, for him, for you.’

‘I don’t know where he is.’

‘You do know that it’s the family’s prerogative to take as long as they need away from the alcoholic?’

‘He’s only four, he’s not capable of making that decision for himself.’

‘Perhaps your father feels he needs a break.’

‘He hadn’t come to see me once in the previous three years. I think he’s taken enough of a break.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She closes her eyes, lost in the moment, savouring the tea, reminding me of Tommy’s little face at moments of such bliss. Yumptious scrumptious. He always had something of a little Buddha about him.