“Do we have to do this?” I ask quietly through gritted teeth, smiling like my face has frozen.

“Yes, we do,” she says. “Now smile properly. You look like someone ran over your hamster.”

“I don’t have a hamster.”

“Figure of speech.”

“I don’t think it is, actu—”

She ignores me and turns back to face the room. I look out at a room full of smiling faces and swallow hard. I can’t lose it, not now, not in front of everyone.

“Twenty-eight years ago,” Mum says dramatically, “at three twenty-five in the morning, I was on a hospital bed staring up at the bright light, flat on my back with my legs wide—”

“Mum!”

“What?”

“Too much information. Far, far too much information.”

“I wasn’t going to give them all the details,” she says defensively. “Just the general gist.”

“I think they’ve got it.”

“OK. Well, look.” She picks up one of my hands and looks at me proudly. “Basically, what I’m trying to say is that your father and I are so proud of you. There was a time we feared we couldn’t have children, and then to be blessed with one as wonderful as you, so kind and caring and funny and sweet and talented, and, really, I could go on and on here but I’m trying to keep it relatively short so people can get back to eating and drinking.” She pauses to look meaningfully at our friends and family. “I don’t want any leftovers.”

They laugh, because the amount of food on the table is ridiculous and of course there will be leftovers. This is a long-standing joke; my mother is an infamous over-caterer.

She turns her attention back to me. “We love you, and we know things haven’t been the easiest for you, but we’re so proud of the way you fought the battle your way. With such courage and determination and an amazingly cheerful spirit. And the way you’ve gone on to live your life these last few years, sampling everything that life has to offer, well, obviously we think you’re amazing.”

That’s when the tears start. Completely against my will, they come. Her words sound awfully similar to a eulogy. I wipe the tears away quickly, hoping they will be put down to memories and sentimentality.

“Oh, Ava.” Mum sniffs, her own eyes glossy with tears. “I wasn’t trying to make you cry.”

“I know.”

“Ben!” she shouts, causing me to jump.

My dad pops his head around the kitchen door frame.

“Now?” he asks.

Mum holds up a finger. “One second. Ava, we know that you’ve been saving hard these last couple of years for your big Overseas Experience. And as much as it will probably kill me to wave you off for a year or so, your father and I have come up with something to make your journey a bit more”—she tilts her head, trying to think of the right word—“comfortable.” She gestures to my father.

“Now?” he asks.