She sighed, jangling the keys in her hand before taking a deep breath and marching up to the gate, half hidden by the vast evergreen bushes. On the other side was a neat lawn with slightly overgrown flower beds and a gravel path that led to the house. There was nothing special about it, certainly nothing unusual, and yet despite this Heather felt her stomach tighten as she walked up the path. It was not a welcoming building, never had been; the bleak pebbledash merged with the blank windows to suggest a place that was closed and would be closed for ever. The door was painted a dreary magnolia, and on the ground next to it was a fat terracotta pot. It was filled with black soil, and on the smooth orange surface a rough heart had been scratched, the lines jagged and overlapping. Heather frowned at it slightly – she’d never thought her mother one for the rustic look – and why was it empty? It was very unlike her mother to leave something unfinished … which was ironic, given how things had ended. For a long wobbly moment Heather thought she might cry, right there on the doorstep, but instead she gave her arm a swift pinch, and the tears retreated. No time for that. There were a few grey feathers on the doorstep, probably belonging to a pigeon. Grimacing, Heather kicked them away with the toe of her trainer and pulled the right key from the bunch.

She let herself in to a hallway ticking with silence and dust, a few letters and a slippery pile of junk mail skittering away as she pushed the door open. It was late morning but the gloomy September sky and the tall trees outside meant that the place was busy with shadows. She hurriedly flicked on all the light switches she could see, blinking at a chintzy lampshade that leapt into pastel life.

The living room was tidy, and dusty. There were no dirty cups, no half-read books propped on the sofa. There was an old red coat slung over the back of a chair, its thick wool pilling at the sleeves. The kitchen was in a similar state; everything cleaned and put away. Her mother had, Heather noticed, even turned the page over on the calendar to show September, despite knowing she wouldn’t be seeing the rest of the month.

‘What was the point, Mum?’ She tapped her fingers against the slick pages, noting that there was nothing written in the little boxes, no notes saying: ‘cancel milk/kill self’.