On Monday morning, I had made the gut-twisting decision to block Mum’s number. She’d started calling and messaging just before midnight on Saturday, and it had been a relentless barrage since. Mostly disguised as motherly chat:

Just wondered if you know where the potato peeler is?

Or:

Good luck with your 1st day in the new job! Thinking of you xxx

A few were more blatant:

It’s so empty here without you

I’m really struggling, Ollie, can you call me?

My chest is really bad today. I don’t want you to worry, but just in case the will is in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

Karina had texted once each day, as agreed, and would continue to do so until things had settled. She said that Mum was weepy and withdrawn, but physically fit and well. She’d reluctantly agreed to teach another embroidery course, and Linda had taken her out for Sunday dinner.

Before I left, I had patiently explained to Mum that if she bombarded me with messages, I would block her number. She had demanded to know what ‘bombarded’ meant, so I had told her that more than a couple of text conversations and one call a day was excessive, at least while we were getting used to things. She’d mocked me for being a control freak, but I’d anticipated what was coming and didn’t want to block her without warning.

Silencing the constant beeps was like ditching a forty-pound rucksack. With the security of knowing Karina would tell me if an emergency arose, for the first time in twenty years I could stop mothering my smothering mother, and pay some attention to me.

But like I said, the crunch point came on Thursday.

I’d been interviewing potential reading coaches for most of the day, using a hired room in the Nottingham Central Library. The regional manager, Alec, had been interviewing with me, and he’d waffled on so much that every interview had overrun. Once the final candidate had left, he’d then wanted to go over each one in detail, despite the fact that it was obvious which three would be best for my team. Before I could make up some excuse to leave, it was after five thirty.

‘I’m so sorry, I really appreciate you taking the time to talk this all through with me, but I have to get on.’ I was going to be massively late for dinner, and anxiety about needing to get home was crackling in my veins.

‘Oh?’ Alec sat back in his chair, as though settling himself in for a thorough discussion about why I needed to leave. ‘Have you got plans?’

But before I could try to fudge some sort of explanation about how we always ate at six, it hit me.