Intervention comes in the form of my mother, as always. She arrives on the Thursday morning, four days after James left, two days before I was supposed to have the wedding day of my dreams, pushing a wheelchair into the room in front of her.

“Get in,” she says.

“What? No.”

“If I have to lift you in I will.”

I don’t doubt her. But still, I don’t move. I am weak and tired. When I try to sleep, I see his face, so I force myself to stay awake until exhaustion takes over and plunges me into a dreamless slumber that does nothing to ease my fatigue.

“I mean it,” she says, crossing her arms and looking at me sternly. “Get up.”

“Why?”

“Because despite how you’ve been acting, you haven’t lost the use of your legs.”

“Then why did you bring a chair?”

“Because, smarty, you’ve barely eaten so I’d be surprised if you have the strength to walk very far without fainting. Now come on, hurry up. You’ll get bedsores if you don’t move soon.”

“I don’t care.”

“You will once you get them. Nasty, smelly things, I’ve heard.”

“Stop trying to shock me into doing what you want, Mum.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

She sighs. “Ava, I don’t know what’s really going on with you and James, but any fool can see how much you’re hurting. And I’ve allowed you to wallow, I have, but it’s been four days now and you’re not snapping out of it. If anything, you’re sinking deeper. Normally I’d leave you to have all the time you need to work through whatever it is you’re working through. But time is a luxury we don’t have. So get off that goddamn bed this minute, and get in the bloody chair.”

I know how unrelenting she can be, so reluctantly I do as I’m told and shuffle off the bed, pitifully lowering myself into the chair she thrusts out triumphantly.

“Where are we going?”

“Wait and see.”

I slouch down low and stare at my stockinged feet as she wheels me along corridors, through doors, and eventually into an elevator.

“I’m getting out?” I ask hopefully when I see she pushes the ground-floor button.

She grimaces. “No. Sorry. I should have realized you might get your hopes up.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

When the elevator doors open she pushes me out and across the reception area, toward the big glass automatic doors. I look up at her, confused. “I thought you said…?”

“You’re not going home. Not yet.”

The fresh air hits like I’ve walked into a wall of perfume, only the opposite: sweet, natural air, so much softer than the harsh, recycled air inside that dries out your mouth and skin, leaving you scaly like a lizard. It’s warmer too. She takes the path that leads to the seat where I met the old lady, all those months ago. It is different now, surrounded by the lush green growth of summer. My father, Kate, and Amanda are there. They have a rug spread out on the grass and are sitting around it.