As Fran’s face crumples, Jenna’s heart breaks. ‘I didn’t think you cared. I was wrong and I hurt you. I’m so, so sorry, and I don’t blame you for hating me. I’d hate me too.’

‘Hate you?’ Fran swipes at the tears on her cheeks. ‘Of course I don’t hate you.’

‘But you must resent me. I’ve put you through so much. You had to deal with—’

‘Nothing, not a thing, not compared to you.’ Fran reaches for a tissue and blots her eyes. ‘I have regrets too. For not being the sister you deserved, for not caring for you or protecting you, for being so wrapped up in my own little world that I wasn’t there when you needed me. But the fact is …’ A tendon above her eye twitches. ‘Oh gosh, why is this so hard to say? I love you, Jenna.’ The words come out in a rush. ‘I’ll get better at doing that. I promise. It’ll come more naturally. I’ll say it daily.’

‘Don’t go that far!’ Jenna laughs and then her expression grows more serious. ‘I love you too, Fran. I didn’t say it to you either but I do. I love you.’

Her older sister plucks another tissue from the box on the table, dabs at her eyes and then loudly blows her nose. Afterwards, she gets up, crosses the room, drops the tissue into the bin and stands by the window, looking out into the street. Jenna’s eyes fill with tears. Fran’s so forgiving, so understanding, and what she did was selfish. She put Fran – and their parents – through so much pain.

Fran sighs softly and turns away from the window. ‘Is there another reason why you decided not to come back?’

Jenna shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

‘There was a wooden train in the hallway, there’s a baby gro on the radiator and a’ – Fran gestures behind her, to the window – ‘a framed photo of a baby on the sill.’

Jenna’s eyes dart towards the radiator and the blue and white spotty baby gro lying across it. She thought she’d hidden everything away. Not because she wanted to keep her son from Fran but because she wanted the moment to be right, before she shared the most precious thing in her life.

‘Is the child Tom’s?’

The question hangs in the air between them, weighty and loaded.

‘No. He’s not.’

Fran lets out a breath. ‘Good.’