And yes, a tiny part of me may have reacted with such ferocity because for one horrible moment, I had wondered that, too.

In the days after Jonathan and I split up, as I cried on the sofa, nursing my broken heart with a giant tub of ice cream, Mum’s pains began to improve. I put away all thoughts that Jonathan had been right. She was better now, and that was what mattered.

I thought about Aunty Linda’s advice as I walked back through the murky drizzle, to the street of 1920s semi-detached homes where I’d spent my entire life. She was right, of course – I was earning enough to support myself, if I was careful, so money was no reason to wait until I was married before moving out. Yet, that was the eventuality Mum had always drilled into me: ‘When you get married, and have your own place…’

For the most part, Mum and I had a good relationship. Leaving would devastate her, and I wasn’t sure it was worth it. If I spoke to her and put some boundaries in place, maybe things could get better without me having to move out.

Besides, I’d never spent so much as one night alone. What if I hated it?

Even thinking about the logistics of it all: telling Mum, packing up, sorting all the admin, finding somewhere new… the whole idea was exhausting, and that was all before I’d actually gone anywhere.

But as I trudged up our narrow, concrete drive, I allowed myself one moment to imagine what it would be like if the house that awaited me was empty. I’d slip off my shoes, sink into the sofa and soak up the blissful silence. I’d watch whatever I felt like on television instead of endless soap operas. Eat what I wanted, when I wanted, rather than the standard six o’clock sit-down meal.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I’d please myself.

Was I a horrible, selfish cow for even thinking about it?

Either way, I thought of nothing else for the rest of the week. On Saturday morning, as soon as Mum left for work at the Buttonhole, I drove round to see Steph, with the promise of her usual weekend breakfast pancakes, bacon and eggs and token bowl of berries.

Her brother, Nicky, answered the door. ‘Hey, Ollie!’ he yelled, while racing back into the kitchen. ‘Can’t stop!’

I followed him down the hallway as he whipped open the back door and sped out.

‘Drew’s taking him for a bike ride,’ Steph said, shaking her head. ‘Helmet on first!’ she yelled through the door. ‘Drew – are you watching him?’

‘He’s fine!’ Drew appeared at the door, snaking one arm out to snatch a slice of bacon, grabbing Steph and kissing her when she leant forwards to slap his hand. ‘Relax and enjoy your breakfast.’