“Please don’t treat me like an invalid, Mum. I’m not dead yet. I know my limits. Let me enjoy this.”

Her arms tighten around my ribs with as much pressure as she dares exert. She is worried, my mother, about hurting me. Her extreme gentleness is heart-breaking.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes back. “I just want to protect you. Stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s lovely.”

She steps back to hold me at arm’s length, her eyes betraying her emotion. “Hang on.” She scrambles in her purse. “I need to send a photo to your father. Where’s my bloody phone?”

“He’ll see me when it’s published, Mum.” I am conscious of James waiting, watching.

“Yes, I know that, but as your father I think he should get a sneak preview, don’t you? Ah, here it is.”

She fishes her phone out of her bag and also, throwing a frown at James, her glasses. Putting them on, she peers at her phone until she finds the right icon and jabs at it a few times because no matter how many times I tell her you don’t have to double-click on your phone like you do on a computer, she just can’t break the habit.

“Stand over by that tree,” she says.

“No. Just hurry up and take the photo.”

James clears his throat impatiently. “Would you like me to take one of you both together?”

Mum takes her glasses off quickly. “That would be nice, thank you.” She passes him the phone. “You just push that little camera-looking picture on the bottom. Make sure you hold it steady, though, or it’ll be blurry. And watch you don’t put your thumb in front of that little square bit there. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve done that.”

I see James stifle a smile as I groan.

“He’s a professional photographer, Mum. I think he can work a phone camera.”

“Oh, yes, silly me.”

She comes to stand beside me and we hold each other’s waists, heads together, and we smile as James snaps off a couple of shots.

How many photos of me in my lifetime? With my mother? My father? With anyone?

“Thank you,” Mum says, taking the phone off him and texting one off to my father. “Are you sure you don’t need me to come with you?”

I shake my head. “Go join the others. You’ll just make me feel self-conscious if you come.”

“OK.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Look after her,” she says sternly to James.

“Of course.”

“Sorry about that,” I say once we are in the car, bouncing our way down the gravel driveway. “She’s just a bit protective.”

“It’s understandable.”

“And unnecessary.”

He flicks a sideways glance at me. “You can’t blame her, though.”

“No, I can’t. Of course not. I just feel like she’s putting too much pressure and guilt on herself.”

“Isn’t guilt part of a mother’s job description?”

I smile. “Good point. Is your mother overprotective as well?”

“We’re here.” He changes the subject abruptly, pulling the car over onto the grass shoulder and parking it under the shade of a cherry tree. I’m nervous. This is so far out of my comfort zone it’s like the other side of the planet, but that’s exactly why I want to do it. My mindfulness app told me the other day that we only regret the things we didn’t do, not the ones we did. I haven’t done enough things.