Jenna joins her sister at the window, takes the baby gro from the radiator and holds it to her chest. It’s warm with the soft scent of washing powder. ‘I didn’t plan on getting pregnant. But when it happened …’ She smiles to herself, remembering the way her stomach had lurched when she saw the second line on the pregnancy test – she wasn’t married, her parents would be horrified. She sat on the closed toilet lid and gazed at the small stick of plastic in her hands. And then it hit her, no one need ever know about the baby. It was hers. Tristian’s, too, if he wanted to stick around. They’d met in the bar where she worked. He was a local who worked for the Valletta Film Festival. He asked her out five times before she finally relented and agreed to a coffee on a Saturday morning. She liked how passionate he was, how fired up he got when he talked about funding cuts and how important it was to support the work of local filmmakers, how oblivious he was to the glances of nearby coffee drinkers when his voice grew a little too loud. He wore a fedora that had belonged to his grandfather and a worn, brown leather jacket. He dressed for himself, not other people, and she admired that. And he was interested in her, not her past or what was going on in her head, but what drove her, the dreams she had and the things she felt passionately about. When she told him she’d always wanted to study art he shrugged and said, ‘So do it. Buy materials, learn on YouTube.’ He was straight talking, uncomplicated and emotionally solid. She didn’t need Tristian the same way she’d needed Tom or Nick – she wasn’t broken anymore. She didn’t need his approval, or his love, or anyone else’s. But he did love her, he told her, after three months together. Still, when she’d discovered she was pregnant she’d been prepared to embrace life as a single mother if Tristian decided to walk away; she’d got through worse. When she told him the news he’d punched the air and said, ‘Marvellous news, the best!’ and happiness spread through her chest like honey.

‘When it happened …’ She looks across at Fran. ‘It felt right. And it … it strengthened my resolve, to stay here, to keep quiet. My son is the most precious thing in the world to me and I didn’t want that tainted. I didn’t want it spoiled by criticism or questions. I didn’t want Dad to ask why I’m not married or to grill Tristian about his job. I didn’t want Mum to lecture me about the right and wrong way to feed or care for my child. I didn’t want them to take over and spoil everything.’