I open the door without knocking and stand for a long moment in the hallway, drawing in the familiar scent of my childhood home. I run my hand lightly across my father’s battered golf bag and smile at a childhood picture of Camilla and me on the wall. I take my drenched parka off and hang it on the wall hook, letting it drip onto the tiles. I remember sitting on this same floor as a child, struggling to get out of my bulky winter boots, loving the warmth from the underfloor heating after coming back inside from playing in the snow for hours. The house smelled exactly the same then – of laundry, food always prepared from scratch, the distinct, chalky smell of the rock samples in my father’s office, the orange roses my mother favors: home.

I avoid my gaze in the mirror, the drowned cat look was never a good one, and I need to summon all my energy to get through the evening with my mother when what I want is to just withdraw to the bathtub with a large glass of wine and my own thoughts.

‘What are you doing standing there, honey? Oh, gosh, you are absolutely soaked!’ My mother has appeared in the doorway without me noticing and pulls me into a close hug. I’m surprised by how good it feels to be held by her and I stay in her embrace for a little longer than I normally would, noticing that she feels slighter and smaller than I think of her. It’s a special sorrow, that moment when you realize that your parents have grown old.

‘Hey, Mum,’ I say.

‘Oh, Kristina, you look so…’

‘Terrible?’

‘No, of course not. Tired and wet. Never terrible, you beautiful, silly girl.’ She ushers me into the open-plan living area that she insisted upon a couple of years ago, knocking through the small, cozy rooms of my childhood and creating a ‘more modern home’. She presses a glass of white wine into my hand and I take a big, grateful sip and sit down in my usual place at the table.

‘It’s so good to have you here. I haven’t seen you in so long! How long is it?’ says my mother, placing two heaped plates on the table, chunks of chicken swimming in watery red-onion gravy.

‘It’s just a couple of weeks, Mum,’ I say, but grant her a smile. It’s not her fault that I’m worn out. ‘How have you been?’

‘Busy. It seems like the petition has a good chance of winning, though if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to take anything for granted. After we were featured in the newspaper, I was invited to speak about the situation on the radio. That raised awareness, as you can imagine.’

‘Yes.’