Mum was never the same after Dad died. She was already heartbroken from having to leave Larkfields and Sussex, and no matter how much poor Dad tried to put a gloss on things, the Croydon bungalow in an unassuming cul-de-sac could never compete with beautiful Larkfields; with the Sussex country set, with Barbara and her dazzling parties. But while Dad was alive, Mum still had a role, however outdated it might seem. She would still cook elaborate dinners and get dressed up to greet him from work. When he died, she shrivelled. Her whole world collapsed around her and the only person left was the daughter she had spent years trying to avoid. We may have lived under the same roof but Mum could barely bring herself to look at me. I had destroyed her life and here I was, a twenty-something burden floating from one dead-end job to the next. For my mother, Dad’s death only served to magnify my presence. If I walked into a room she would find an excuse to leave it. Sometimes at night I would hear her crying through the wall that divided my bedroom from hers, thick, heaving sobs that sounded like they were coming from the depths of her soul. It was unbearable.