We have to sit around the kitchen table for the birthday meal, it’s too windy outside for it to be any fun sitting in the garden. The prawns have been laid out on a plate on the kitchen worktop to defrost, Kristoffer drove into town to go to the supermarket, they were all out of fresh prawns. I wonder if he was fit to drive. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, sitting on the sofa with a book, chatting to Olea every so often and asking her to put down her iPad, reading something aloud to her. I wander around the cabin, tidying up, setting the table, putting out wine glasses for each of us. I lay in bed for a while after speaking to the doctor. I cried a little, but not much, my chest felt too tight for my sobs to surface, there wasn’t enough air. I tried taking deep breaths and exhaling steadily, but the heaving and stuttering burned inside me, as if someone were standing there forcing my ribcage closed. I trembled and wondered if I had a fever, pulled the duvet up over me even though I was fully clothed. Eventually I could lie still no longer; I stood in the bathroom and googled breathing exercises, tried one called square breathing, sobbed on every 116inhale, felt so cold that I had to take a shower, standing for ages in the warm water.

We sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Mum at the table, mostly for Olea’s benefit. Marthe and Kristoffer and Stein sing loudly, I sing softly, there isn’t enough air. I’ll never be anyone’s mother, no grown-up children will ever sing to me on the day I turn sixty-five, I’ll never be anyone’s grandmother, I’ll never have any grandchildren to celebrate Christmas with. A void opens up within me, I stare at the great, black, empty space and sing happy birthday, dear Mum, happy birthday to you, I’ll never know this myself, it’s too late. Square breathing, breathing in and looking up, breathing out and looking to the right, breathing in and looking down, breathing out and looking to the left, I do it a few times in a row while the others are busy chatting.

We toast Mum’s health with white wine, Kristoffer pours Olea some cola, he doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t look at Marthe, I can see her trying to catch his eye too. I’ll never pour my child cola. I’ll never visit them at the cabin, I’ll never have anyone to visit. The water in our finger bowls is cloudy, a few prawn antennae float on the surface. My hands are unsteady, I’m shaking as I peel the shellfish, I can hear myself praising the plump, juicy prawns.

‘Prawns are actually at their best in January and February,’ Stein says, ‘when the water is at its coldest.’