‘I’ll relax once you’ve stopped ogling me and are properly watching my brother!’

Drew grinned at me, waggling his eyebrows, before disappearing into the garden.

Having a brother with Down syndrome was the main reason why Steph had waited so long to marry the boy she’d loved since seventeen. She had basically raised Nicky, along with their two brothers, having been adamant that they would escape the future that too many people considered inevitable for mixed-race boys growing up on an estate run by criminals, with empty cupboards, a father in and out of prison and a mother who clung to whatever man would have her. With Jordan now a junior doctor, Simeon studying for a PhD in computer science and Nicky settled in supported accommodation, Steph had pretty much sprinted down the aisle last year.

She made two cappuccinos using the machine I’d bought for a wedding present, and joined me at the table, squeezing her generous curves into the breakfast nook. ‘I thought you might want to talk without Tweedledum and Tweedledee chipping in every two seconds.’

I helped myself to a pancake and a spoonful of scrambled eggs. Steph knew me well enough to decipher the tornado of emotions swirling behind the brief messages I’d sent during the week.

‘Have you spoken to Mark?’ she asked, easing me in with a low-key topic.

I cringed. ‘He avoided me at the library on Thursday, and then sent a text saying that he’d decided to give things another go with his ex. He didn’t want me to feel awkward, because she works in the library and I might see them together.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Yeah. I knew who he meant straight away. She’s one of those really enthusiastic, smiley people who ends every sentence with a question and I sort of already hated her a bit.’

Steph made a scoffing noise. ‘She can have him. Mark was only a practice run, to get you back dating. He was never going to be the man you embark upon the Dream List with.’

I sighed. She was probably right.

‘You know I’m right.’

‘Okay, but whatever Mark might or might not have been, that’s not the point, is it?’

It was Steph’s turn to sigh. ‘What are you going to do? This is not going to get better on its own. She’s not going to get any better if you keep dropping everything whenever she imagines a new twinge.’

I could feel my shoulders hunching over as my internal organs shrank away from this truth.

‘She’s ill!’

‘Yeah, a chronic case of selfish cowitis. Smothering mothering syndrome.’ She used a chunk of crispy bacon to mop up the remains of syrup on her plate.