At precisely six o’clock, the exact time I’d asked Karina to arrive, the doorbell rang. Karina entered with a blast of fresh air, an enormous smile, a bunch of Mum’s favourite pink roses and a box of Quality Street.

‘Oh! How thoughtful of you,’ Mum said, sufficiently thrown by the gesture to forget that she was being aloof. ‘I love the strawberry creams!’

‘What?’ Karina cried, her Ukrainian accent booming off the ceiling. ‘I brought them because they’re my favourites. But I hate the strawberry creams. How perfect!’

Mum blinked in surprise. ‘Let me take your coat for you.’

By the time I’d brought the pots of chilli and rice out to join the salad and crusty bread, Mum had already spotted Karina’s pinafore dress, perfectly fitting her stout frame.

‘That’s very fine stitching,’ she said, peering closer at the appliqué on the front pockets.

‘Oh, thank you!’ Karina beamed even harder. ‘It took me ages, but worth the effort.’

‘You made this?’ Mum stepped back, her eyes narrowing.

‘Of course! I make all my own clothes. I can’t follow a pattern, so sometimes the process is slower than I’d like, but it beats paying for tat produced by slave labour on the other side of the world.’

‘Yes.’ Mum was agog. I mentally punched the air before inviting Karina to take a seat.

All it took was a couple of opening questions, and Mum and Karina were chatting like old friends. They were a similar age, both soap opera superfans who drank revoltingly milky tea with two sugars. While Karina wasn’t divorced, her husband, Mr Rivers, had died eighteen months earlier.

‘I’m so sorry to hear it,’ Mum said.

‘Don’t be.’ Karina shook her head of cropped grey hair. ‘I didn’t like him. Or the woman who he pretended to play tennis with every Sunday. That involved a whole different type of ballgame.’

‘He was unfaithful?’ Mum asked, a forgotten slice of garlic bread now hovering halfway to her mouth.

‘For thirty-one years. On and off. Mostly on. But. Eh. You know how it is.’

‘I do.’ Mum certainly did. ‘Why didn’t you leave him?’

Karina shrugged. ‘He ran our lives; everything was in his name. How can a part-time care worker who can barely read survive on her own?’

‘Why on earth couldn’t you read?’ Mum asked. I gave her a sharp glance. I’d told her to ask, but she could have phrased things more tactfully.

‘I mean, you’re clearly an intelligent woman!’ Mum added, before taking a flustered bite of her bread that forced her to continue with her mouth full. ‘Creating a quality garment without a pattern takes a lot of skill.’