Lily scrolled through them, page after page, and clicked on an email from January 1998, her hand tensing around the phone as she began to read.

Dear Jess,

I hope you got the card and flowers I sent. I was so thrilled to hear from Mum about the safe arrival of Mia. It’s such a beautiful name and I’ve no doubt she’s a beautiful baby. I hope you’re OK and that motherhood is everything you thought it would be. I suspect these first few weeks will be tiring and probably a little overwhelming, but I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job.

As you probably know from Mum, my baby’s due in just over six weeks—a little girl too. It’s so strange to think of us both having our first child at the same time. Two little girls, two young cousins. Wouldn’t it be nice if they could be friends?

It’s been four years now, Jess. Longer if I think about how little you spoke to me when I was still living at home, or when I’d come home from uni in the holidays. I don’t want us to be estranged forever. Haven’t we both been through enough—been hurt enough—to let this continue? I miss you.

I can’t pretend to know why you’re so angry with me, though I understand that we’ve both got a lot to be angry about. But whatever the reason, I’m sorry, Jess. You were so young when everything happened, I can only imagine how confusing and upsetting it must have been for you. I don’t know whether you’re angry with me because I couldn’t do anything to stop it or whether it’s because I went to uni and left you alone with Mum when she was still having such a tough time. Sometimes I even wonder whether you’re angry because you wish I was the one who wasn’t here anymore. But whatever it is, I’m sorry. If only you’d tell me why you’re so upset then perhaps we can start to put things right. After we’ve both lost so much, surely we don’t want to lose each other too?

I love you,

Lily xxx

Lily closed the email, her fists curling into tight balls. She wished she hadn’t looked, wished she’d had the self-discipline to delete them all. But since her mum’s diagnosis six months ago, it was as though a sluice had opened up in her mind, releasing all the memories she had kept locked behind closed gates for years.

She shut her eyes, trying to avoid the scene she knew was sidling into her head, but there it was, waiting for her, as it always was.

The room is dark, only the faintest early morning light visible around the edge of the closed curtains. She can just make out the hummingbirds decorating the wallpaper around the window but everything else is in silhouette. The air is still and smells pungent—sharp and slightly sweet—like overripe fruit or an open bottle of vinegar. She hears the crying before her eyes have adjusted to the darkness, before they have found the figure sitting on the bed: the sobs are low and painful. It is a sound that causes Lily’s heart to knock against her chest, gently at first and then more insistently until she fears that it might be heard. She knows she should not be there but now that she is—unnoticed, unheard—she is too scared to leave in case she accidentally reveals her presence. She allows only the smallest stream of air in and out of her mouth, the shallowest of breaths she hopes will not betray her. But the next thing she sees is so unexpected, so shocking, that she knows she will spend the rest of her life wishing she could un-see it. It takes so little time but the sight of it winds her. She stands motionless, her breath trapped in her lungs, watching, waiting, doing nothing to stop it. She swallows silently and she can taste it on her tongue: the bitter, metallic, unyielding taste of fear.