Michelle looks at it with the faintest sadness in her smile. ‘He’d better be,’ she says. ‘He’d better be.’

Epilogue

SUSAN

I run my duster along the mantelpiece, adjusting the vase stuffed full of cornflower-blue irises I picked up at the market. They brighten the lounge, giving it life.

In the kitchen, a Victoria sponge cools on the side. I take out a teapot, swapping it for a larger one, then decide to keep them both out. I reach into the back of the sideboard to get out Mother’s best china, laying it out on the lace-covered dining table.

I climb the stairs, letting the discomfort in my leg dictate the speed at which I go. When I eventually make it to the top, I take a breather. I move into my new bedroom, the large one at the front that for so many years was off limits. A room I wasn’t allowed to go in until such time as I had to, to help one or other of them into bed, to get them up in the morning. To let the undertaker in when their final moments came. It still feels odd, like it isn’t mine. But then sometimes the whole house feels that way. I suspect it always did. That’s why it’s time to sell. To make a change. To live my own life.

I freshen up, pick up the book of fairy tales, and steadily make my way back downstairs. As I reach the final step, a nervous knock sounds at my door.

I open it and there he is. My son. The man who I could never have raised as his mother has, but to whom I intend to take every opportunity to make it up to for each day I live until my natural last.

‘Come in,’ I say, standing back as he steps in the house. It’s the first time he’s been here since I came home. He looks around – I suspect he’s as nervous as I am – before finally leaning across to give me a kiss, handing over the flowers he clutches in his hand. ‘Thank you!’ I say, taking in the scent of delicate yellow freesia. ‘Come through.’ I nod in the direction of the lounge and watch as he wanders through. ‘It feels a bit more like you’re here this time,’ he says, reaching for the new book I’ve been reading each night before bed. ‘You like poetry?’ he asks, flicking through the pages. ‘I like all sorts,’ I say. ‘I’ve found a new love for reading since I stopped…’ I look down at the book in my hands. ‘I don’t know if this is appropriate,’ I say, stepping towards him, book outstretched. ‘But I want you to have this. I don’t know if you ever plan to have your own children, but—’

‘God, can you imagine me as a father!’ he says, taking the book from my hands.

‘I can.’ I smile.

‘That would make you…’ He cuts himself short, as if finishing the suggestion is a step too far, and I realise that each time he thinks about our relationship, he must also think about his mum.