The meal was finished. We were still seated round the kitchen table and we were on coffee. If I had been staying for the afternoon, then we would have been in the sitting room for our hot drinks but I had already told my parents I had to go soon – I had a stack of marking to do for the next day. This was true, but it was also an excuse. I didn’t want to spend the whole afternoon there, although so far, it had been pleasant and companionable enough, by which I mean that several crucial things had not happened. My mother had not asked if my jumper was new, in the tone of voice that made clear what she meant was, shouldn’t you and Matty be saving up to buy a house instead of spending money on clothes? My father had not sat upright, paused, then belched from the bottom of his belly – a ritual that made my mother crash the plates onto the table so hard that gravy would slop. I had not, at any stage of the meal, rolled my eyes.

None of these things had happened, which meant that as far as Sunday lunches with my parents went, it had been easy, pleasant. We had had a nice meal – the lamb worked, as my father had put it, ‘This lamb works!’ grinning as he chewed. My mother had talked animatedly of her new Pilates class. For once, I had managed to quell the mounting irritation I often felt when I saw them.

*

I rose from my chair. ‘Just going to the loo,’ I said. ‘I’ll get my coat on and come and say goodbye, don’t get up.’

The downstairs loo was next to the coat pegs. As I was standing in the hallway, pulling at my scarf, I heard Dad speaking low: ‘Well, maybe. But she’s no spring chicken.’

Sometimes, you overhear someone say something, and the intonation in their voice tells you exactly the face they are pulling. I was standing in the hallway of my parents’ home. They were in the kitchen, waiting for me to go, and before I had even left their house, they were discussing my relationship with Matty and wondering when we were going to get around to giving them the grandchild they wanted so badly. I didn’t mind them having this discussion, they were entitled to it, but could they not wait until I had actually left the premises?

Did they ever stop to think that, just because I was an only child, that did not mean I had an automatic responsibility to carry on their genes? Did they not think that I might have a view in the matter, that I might not want children yet, or at all?

She’s no spring chicken.