‘No, everything is being taken care of. The palliative care team are great, and I’ll do what I can to make it as pleasant a journey for her as possible.’

‘You’re a good man, Bert. She’s a lucky woman to have you.’

He smiles, pleased to hear that someone might think him a good man. That someone might think Edith a lucky woman to have him. But I’ve always had a soft spot for Bert. He always had so much time for me, never forgetting my birthday, always taking an interest in what I was doing. Mom said he was a weirdo; that he was trying to play daddy because he had no kids of his own. I didn’t buy it then and I don’t buy it now. Bert is just one of the good guys.

Edith has fallen asleep by the time we go back in, her head hanging over the side of the chair. Bert rushes over to pull the cushion into place. My heart is not strong enough for this kind of pain, for the sight of old people struggling just to put the day in.

Leaning over Edith, I kiss her papery cheek and tuck the blanket around her shoulders. Something surges through me like an electric current. Mom is lying in a bed ten miles from here with no one to kiss her goodnight. I need to get back to her. Need to see her, to touch my lips to her cheek. Bert sees my face change.

‘Are you alright, Becca?’

I turn to hug him, to hold him tight to stop me falling. As frail as he is, he keeps me upright.

‘Don’t be so sad,’ he says. ‘Edith’s had a good life.’

‘I know,’ I sniffle, stepping back out of his arms, ‘but Mom is only fifty-five and she’s dying too.’

He puts his hands on my shoulders, holds me at arm’s length, that sad smile tugging down the corner of his lips.

‘Becca,’ he says gently, ‘your mother is already dead.’

‘What?’ Did I just hear right? How dare he? Mom might have Alzheimer’s, her memory and her sense of self so faded that if I told her she was dead she’d probably smile, but she’s still alive, still breathing, still my mom.

I’m already opening my mouth to say all this when it occurs to me to wonder if Bert is entirely himself. If the stress of caring for Edith, of nursing his own broken heart, isn’t taking its toll.

I watch him, bent over at the fireplace, struggling to stoke the fire, keeping the room warm so Edith can decay in peace. This is not a room for confrontation. Let it go.

‘Goodbye, Edith,’ I say. ‘Take care, Bert.’

‘When will you be back?’ he says, leaving his post by the fireplace to walk me to the door.