Mum would sleep a lot. And still be really tired, so it was weird to hear her moving about so much. Marty set about opening the pie lid with a tin opener and pushed some dirty dishes aside in order to jam the kettle under the tap to draw water to make tea for his mum.

Marty fished out two dirty plates from the sink and ran them under the tap. He set the oven timer for twenty minutes.

When he stepped into the back room, he almost couldn’t believe his eyes. His mum had cleared a corner of the room. She stood there, hot and sweaty in a baggy T-shirt, her hair tied in a knot at the top of her head, determination in her eyes. She’d put some papers into a bag. She’d found some rubbish bags and had filled at least two. She was out of breath.

“I can do this,” she said, a proud smile on her face. Marty’s heart sank. Not again, he thought.

“I’ve almost cleared in here.”

Marty looked around, and yes, there was a small clear space, but everything else was exactly as it was. His mum did this every now and again. It was like she came alive for a little bit. It was as if she woke up and looked around and thought This is too much and started to clear. And she would. And sometimes it would last a day, and sometimes it would last a week, but usually no longer than that. After a while, it was as if the fog would come back, her body would slow down, and slowly but surely all the mess would come back, sometimes worse than before.

“What do you think?” she asked, grinning.

“It’s great,” he lied.

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, looking around, hands on hips. “I’m going to get it sorted this time…”

Marty felt a tightening in his stomach.

“Of course you are,” he said. “Anyway, the dinner’s on.”

She nodded.

“I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.”

“Okay!” she said, getting back to her cleaning, her eyes shining.

Marty went to check on the pie. He used to get really upset by the whole thing. The embarrassment, the frustration, the wanting her to just be normal. Just a normal, boring nag-you-to-tidy-your-room kind of mum, but weirdly, over the years, he had also made a kind of room in his head. And he’d stuffed all the “Sorry, you can’t come back to mine, my mum’s not home” and the “Sorry, sir, I forgot my new book at the library” and the “Yeah, we went away over the summer too” excuses into it. He’d pushed them in and squished the door shut, and had become really good at not thinking too much about any of it.