But he doesn’t want to sit alone in the living room, he wants to stay in the kitchen, to hang around her feet and read her recipes and get one of those big hugs. He loved his nana to pieces but it always felt like she used affection as a reward; she was never one for just giving out hugs, he always had to be doing ‘the right thing’ first. She wasn’t like it with everyone though, his cousins didn’t seem to be held up to the same standards as him. Yet, when it came to talking about favourites, Kiama was always named as Nana’s. But of course, he deserved to be, because all his cousins had mums.

‘Where are the photographs you showed to Sarah?’

‘Of Mum?’ he straightens up.

‘Yes, bring them. I want to see.’

He takes the envelope from his bag but doesn’t want to look at them himself this morning, to see Mum’s young smiling face, to imagine a swelling under her T-shirt, a son who disappointed her.

‘Show me,’ Purity says, her hands damp from the vegetables.

Kiama holds them out in front of her.

‘My girl,’ she says, the water flicking from her hands as she claps them together, ‘my beautiful girl.’ Her eyes mist over and she drops them down to her food prep. ‘I loved her from when she was a baby. From the very first day.’

Kiama understands then that Mum was Purity’s favourite; she was the one who Purity raised from birth and was like another child to her, not him. He’s simply a by-product that came to stay for a few months.

She lifts the edge of her skirt and wipes her face.

‘It’s weird that Yvonne had these photos for so long and never had a clue where they were taken. My grandparents didn’t know either.’

‘They never went there.’

‘I’m not surprised. They’re not even interested in me, never mind some random orphans.’

She looks at him as if he’s spoken out of turn. ‘They are good people. They were always giving things to the house when I worked for them. And Emma liked it there too, helping and visiting the children.’ She stumbles as she bends to reach a large pot and Kiama lifts it for her. ‘Where is Sarah?’ she says. ‘She should be working this morning.’

Purity’s hands look old, wrinkled in a way her face isn’t. What age is she anyway? And still working like this?

‘You don’t need to cook today,’ Kiama says. ‘We can go out to eat.’