I sat, wet-haired, shrouded in a thin plastic robe with a green bleach-stained towel draped around my neck. A pretty girl, younger than me, with a heavily painted face and those marker-pen brows I’ll never understand, presented me with a stewed tea and a dog-eared copy of Heat magazine before Natasha came over to ask me what I wanted.

I told her just a trim. But before I knew it, she’d talked me into layers, and as the hair fell away, all I could think of was Mum saying, ‘Oh, she’s made a right bugger of that. You know your hair’s too fine for layers.’

‘How’s your mam doing?’ asked Natasha, lifting strands between her fingers.

‘She’s OK,’ I said. ‘She’s being put forward for a trial.’

But as I watched her replying in the mirror, only her mouth moved. I heard no words.

Because I felt it.

Understood what her eyes were telling me. I must have known all along. I saw Mum beating the eggs. Today I’m going to be a good mum, do the right thing. Half her allowance pressed into my hand. No goodbyes. We didn’t like goodbyes. And on the countertop I saw the small, sharp knife.

The blood drained from my face.

I stood. My legs buckled. I ripped off the robe; the towel remained in place. My hair, cold, wet, slapped against my ears. I could hear Natasha’s words again: ‘What are you doing?’

The towel dropped onto the tarmac. I heard beeps. Felt the heat of a car bonnet inches from my body. Ignored the abuse from the driver. Had to carry on.

It took forever to reach my road. Even running, the journey stretched beyond recognition. Like one of those dreams in which you need to make a call and can’t dial, or are late to be on stage in a play. But it was no dream.

Breathlessly, I turned into Cholmondeley Road. Past the houses. Fourteen, twelve, ten, eight . . .

Jamie was in next door’s driveway tinkering with his car. ‘I’ve got that hair-trimmer for your mum,’ he said.

I tore open our gate. Reached the door.

Then I calmed.

Looking through the window, all was fine. The lamp glowed in the lounge. The TV flickered. My concerns transferred to the hairdresser. I was mortified. Already deciding Mum would have to call Natasha on my behalf, say I’d had a funny turn.

I unlocked the door. ‘Mum,’ I shouted.

No response. Only the This Morning theme tune coming from the lounge. I followed it. She wasn’t there. I muted the volume and returned to the hall.

‘Mum?’

Nothing.

Except the drip, drip, drip of the tap upstairs.

I followed the rhythm.

Opened the bathroom door.

To that snapshot. Cauterized on my brain forever.