The websites I’d been reading about emotional abuse were helping me realise that I didn’t make her feel anything. She was her own person, and how she chose to react to me was her responsibility. That, however, didn’t stop a deep-seated part of me from craving her approval or from hoping that one day she would be proud of me.

I’d have days when it looked like I was making progress – I’d cook dinner without thinking whether she’d like it or not, or leave a mess on the kitchen table and not worry that she was right about me not coping alone. Other times, her miserable moaning haunted my every step.

I didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so much while still being so happy not to have to see or hear from them.

I spent the morning going through the Buttonhole website, finding that Mum had continued to get more actively involved – she was running more workshops, had some quilts and other crafts up for sale. There was a blog about the recent embroidery course, and I was shocked to see a photograph of her looking delighted as she demonstrated a stitch. She had a new hairstyle and wore a cotton dress that made her look a decade younger.

For years I had wished and prayed that she’d get a life of her own, leaving me to get on with mine.

So why did it feel like she’d stabbed me in the chest with her crochet hook?

I took Nesbit out for a long walk once the temperature had eased. I’d called Steph, and she’d listened and sympathised and then ordered me to get back to the Dream List and focus on things I could change, rather than people I couldn’t.

I’d been making such good progress with the list that there weren’t many straightforward options left. It would need to be something big enough to concentrate my mind, but not so big I couldn’t do it soon. There was one obvious choice, but it was one of those items that seemed fun, cosy and romantic with a partner, but cold, scary and pointlessly uncomfortable if tried alone.