‘Are we to be part of that assessment?’ Dad asks, his voice tight.

‘I believe the doctor would like to talk to Samantha on her own first,’ the nurse answers.

‘She has a propensity for storytelling and tends to make things up,’ Mother whispers, her hand reaching out to touch me. I shrug it off.

‘Now, Margaret,’ Dad says.

Both of them fall silent before Dad suggests they go home and come back later. ‘Nothing to be done now.’ He gets up and places his hand on my bare shoulder for a moment before removing it as if he’s had an electric shock, then he pats my lower back through the gown, rhythmically, like he’s soothing a colicky baby.

‘That’s probably a good idea,’ the nurse says. ‘She could do with resting a little more.’

‘We’ll see you later so,’ Dad says, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

‘Don’t go making things up now,’ Mother says as they leave.

‘Now, Margaret …’ I can hear Dad’s pleading in the corridor.

‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’ the nurse says.

I shake my head.

‘Have you tried anything like this before?’ he says, looking pointedly at my wrists.

‘Just a nick!’ I say, batting it away. ‘And it was years ago now.’

I want to say that my mother has tried, and I found her, but some force is pressing on my chest and my ribs are so constricted I can’t speak.

Mother’s hysterical high-pitched voice pings its way into this echoing room, grabbing all the attention she can get, pretending she loves me, oh, how she loves me, but how impossible I am to love. Her voice rises to a wail. She doesn’t like not being the centre of attention. I can picture Dad fussing over her when they get home: bringing her a glass of chilled Sauvignon with clinking ice cubes (knowing enough not to pour the Chardonnay), and placing a cool, wet face cloth on her forehead. He might even massage her bunioned feet until she has passed out, and then he can leave again, a note beside her bed. ‘Sorry, had to go. Urgent business,’ alongside a roll of cash with ‘Treat yourself to something nice’ attached to it. Somehow I don’t think he’ll stick around to see how this particular crisis plays out. He’s not able, and I’m more like him than I realise, cos I’m not able either. I get it, Dad, why you keep leaving, but don’t expect me to stay in your place, soaking up all her hurt and rage.

The nurse doesn’t look at me as he says, ‘Can I get you anything?’

I shake my head, wanting him to leave so I can enact my new plan.