Amber’s determination to be the perfect mother our own mother most definitely was not meant she spent her life spraying tiny pine cones silver for homemade potpourri and never ever letting the sun set on an empty slow cooker in her spotless kitchen. She was constantly in full nail-me-to-the-cross mother–martyr mode. Over the years she had passed on to me a barrage of ‘how-to’ books and advice columns listing ways to be a better parent/book-week-costume-maker/cake-baker/gardener/hubby-pleasing fellatrix, while also being thinner, prettier and less cellulite-riddled. I’d endured conversation after conversation about whether she should be a helicopter mum or a tiger mum or a snowplough parent, a domestic goddess or a sex goddess, or possibly all at once. Now it was my turn to offer Amber a ‘how-to’ manual, as in ‘How to enjoy whatever goddamned years you have left, starting today’.

‘It’s pointless even trying to be a perfect mother, Amber, because you know what will happen?’ I counselled. ‘Your kids will grow up and then start whining “Why didn’t you screw me up more when I was young? I’ve got nobody to blame now!”’

‘Too bloody right,’ Emerald decreed, mid-mouthful. ‘Bottom line? If you’ve steered your kids safely into adulthood without them developing a drug addiction or a penchant for collecting Nazi memorabilia, you deserve a motherhood medal.’

‘I’m sorry, Ruby.’ Amber bridled. ‘But I am not taking mothering advice from a woman whose son is doing drugs.’

‘For god’s sake, the kid smoked one joint. He’s not exactly Pablo Escobar.’

As I watched my sisters furiously try to justify why they didn’t deserve an all-expenses-paid break in the lap of luxury, I convinced myself that I might actually be able to do them a favour. Amber was running herself ragged trying to create some kind of Von Trapp happy-family mirage, and unhappy Emerald was comfort eating her way into being prematurely old; I’d recently heard her actually groan when getting up out of a bean bag. The wake-up call I’d had from my cancer scare could be the catalyst to snap us all out of our collective coma. Yes, this trip away together would be good for all the Ryan girls, I decided. It wasn’t just a cruise, but a life-raft.

‘Aren’t you tired of living a life that revolves around balanced nutritional meals involving quinoa?’ I insisted, putting my hand atop Amber’s. ‘You dash from school appointment to work meeting to kids’ orthodontic check-up like your life is some kind of maternal decathlon. We all do. Yet nobody ever gives us a bronze, let alone a gold, trophy.’