This is stupid. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve walked away from this before and I should do so again. I have a mother – I don’t need another. Especially not one that didn’t want me, whether that was Susan or not. And yet, I feel there is something I need to say.

I lean closer to her, the chair creaking as I do so.

‘I’ve been here before, Susan,’ I say, my voice low. ‘With someone lost. Someone who couldn’t see the point in carrying on. And I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t make a difference.’

She looks to my hand, now resting on the edge of her bed.

‘I can’t let that happen again,’ I say, quietly but insistently. I feel suddenly, overwhelmingly, as if her survival depends on me. And if she doesn’t survive, I might never know the truth.

I wait. I watch. I study her face: the shape of her nose, her eyes, her tiny mouth. I trace an imaginary line from my hands to hers. Are we alike? I feel my mouth run dry. The absence of any response from her pushes me back into the chair, my legs stretched out beneath her bed. I groan, rubbing my face, my forehead tight with confusion. My phone beeps and I sigh, then groan as I read the message.

‘My mum,’ I explain. ‘She wants to—’ I cut myself short, but Susan moves position, turning her body just enough to be able to face me. It’s the most I’ve got from her since I arrived today. I take a deep breath. ‘She’s met someone. She has a new fella.’ Susan closes the book. ‘I’m not ready. I don’t like it. It hurts, somehow,’ I say quietly. ‘She’s amazing, my mum, like truly amazing. I love her, and she raised me, but it’s complicated because she’s not…’ I look up, just in case Susan responds, though I’m not sure I really want her to. Not yet. ‘Well, anyway, I love her, but…’ Susan drops her eyes to my phone, watching as I flick the message up and down on the screen, trying to work out how to respond. ‘I saw her this afternoon.’ I read her message again, using it as a distraction from having to look at Susan, confused by my own confusion.

If Susan was… is… then I should just say something. I could just ask.

If I am her son, couldn’t that be the thing to save her?

Wouldn’t it?

But what if it pushed her further?

What if I was to blame, again, for someone opting out of life?

‘She wants to know if I fancy dinner with them. This evening.’ I fling my phone on her bed. ‘I’m not ready. I’m not in the mood. I just don’t want to.’ I look up at Susan. ‘And now I sound like a spoiled brat, right?’