“Alice,” she says, without looking away from Pointless.

I’m not Alice – that’s my mother – but she seems so content that I don’t correct her, just squeeze her hand when she kisses mine and ask her how her day was.

“Good.” She squeezes my hand back. “You taking Rex for a walk?”

Rex is our dog. He died three years ago.

Mum should have left for work already so I’m surprised to find her in the kitchen.

“Orla! You’re home!” she says, pointing a mug at me. “That means I’m late!”

Mum is the polar opposite of me, a blur of chatter and commotion. She’s always tidying something, cooking something, making a note of something. Even when we’re watching a film she has to get up every five minutes to put the kettle on or let the cat in.

It’s exhausting.

Dad’s the same. He’s a firefighter. I’m so proud when I tell people that. My dad’s a firefighter and my mum’s a nurse. They’re real-life superheroes, unlike me who just sits in my room listening to Kendrick Lamar and picking off my nail varnish.

“You OK?” Mum asks as she rinses her mug. “How was school?”

“Fine.” I nod because I know she doesn’t have time for more than that as she snatches her coat and bag off the table.

“Don’t forget that your dad’s in Manchester,” she reminds me as she strides over and kisses me on the cheek. Then she points at the oven. “I made lasagne. Your nan’s had some but she didn’t eat much so get her to have a yogurt, if you can.”

“Is she OK?” I ask. I don’t know why, as she always says the same thing.

“She’s grand. Jenny took her to bingo then Mrs O’Malley came over for a cup of tea.”

I want to tell her that she forgot who I was again, and about Rex, but she’s late for work so it’s not the best time to have a conversation about my grandmother’s worsening dementia. It probably isn’t the best time to remind her that I hate lasagne either, so when she goes, I turn the oven off and make some toast.

*

I used to love it when I had an hour to be alone and everything was quiet for a bit, but then Meredith went to uni and Nan got worse and now the house is too quiet. Maybe that’s why I can’t settle. Not even when I’m in my room, surrounded by my stuff – my records and posters and the row of succulents lined up on the windowsill – each item carefully curated to reflect who I am. My room is my sanctuary, a little corner of the world that is just mine. I think if a complete stranger came in here they’d look at my stuff and know exactly who I am.

I always feel better in my room. I shut the door and everything stays out there, but not tonight. When I put on my pyjamas, I hope it will help, but it doesn’t, and I find myself pacing back and forth like a cat that’s got itself locked in a shed. I can hear the murmur of the television downstairs and that makes me feel worse as I imagine my grandmother sitting in her chair by herself. I should go down and listen to her idle chatter about South East Today. It’s not nice to leave her on her own, but she’s just going to fall asleep anyway.