Mum turns to face the telly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with my suggestion. She’s been watching reruns of 60 Minute Makeover; another episode is about to start and she doesn’t turn it off. ‘Come on, out with it,’ I say.

‘Maybe there’s nothing to come out with.’

‘Mum, Claire Sweeney’s on your TV screen and the words “smug” and “jazz hands” haven’t left your mouth. Something must be up.’

She sighs and shuffles back to her seat, perching once more on the edge. ‘Well, I’m not exactly sure this is the best time, but since we’re here…’ She clasps her hands on her knee. ‘I’ve met someone.’ Her hands unclasp and fly up to hold her mouth, but the words still have time to fire across the room, punch me in the stomach, then linger like the giant, gloopy bombshell that they are. ‘A man.’ She clarifies, as if it were needed. ‘I met him down the bingo. We’ve been friends for a while now.’ Her voice is tinny, her words are tiny drops of sharp reality, pricking at my consciousness. ‘Rhys,’ she says almost standing, presumably to reach out to me, but I’m grateful she ultimately stays put. ‘This isn’t how I meant it to… I can’t…’

It’s supposed to be me and her.

‘I’m not good on my own,’ she whispers.

We agreed. We all agreed when Dad left. And then she and I made another pact when David died. No extras. Lockdown. Just me and her. ‘I know you might think—’

‘You can’t know anything, Mum,’ I whisper, my hands clenched into fists on my knees. She commits to standing up this time, hovering as she approaches, opting to stare out of the back door instead.

‘Would’ve been sweet peas once,’ she says, nodding towards the bindweed climbing her trellis. ‘And tomatoes.’ With her words comes the smell: a heavy, furry aroma of home-grown, plump fruit on the vine. A smell set free each time she opened the greenhouse in the blistering heat. ‘I’ve just not been bothered this year.’ Her words pick at a button of guilt in the pit of my belly. ‘I’ve missed having company. I always did, but I made a promise to you both. Christ, I worked so hard to get you in the first place, I wasn’t about to let you down by going back on my word, but yes, I’ve missed companionship.’

‘You’ve got me.’

‘Rhys…’

‘Well, you have!’

‘You’re not here. And I know what you’re going to say, but moving in with me isn’t the answer.’ ‘Is that why you’ve been so hard to get hold of recently?’ I ask, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.

‘I wasn’t searching for it,’ she says.

‘When?’ I ask. She pauses, moving back to her chair. ‘When?’ I repeat.

‘A few months ago.’

I get an inkling, a taste of something more. ‘How many months ago?’ I ask.

‘David knew,’ she says quietly.

I get up this time, running my hands over my head as I scan back through the months, searching for a starting point, some critical moment when I missed her mood changing, missed a hint. As David’s life was being rejected by one parent, another was moving on with hers. Was that what tipped him over the edge? Was she giddy? Were there signs? It’s hard to say. I wasn’t looking for anything. Why would I? It was just the three of us!