‘Hey.’

As soon as Danny sees me, he gets that same weird look he gets every time I walk into a room, like I’m about to pull a machete on him. I’m not going to lie, I kind of like it. I’ve clearly killed the vibe so Lou asks me what’s on at school today, but she keeps looking over at Danny every few seconds. I feel like saying pole dancing or elephant training just to see if she’s really listening.

‘Art, maths, double chemistry.’ I shrug, because it doesn’t matter. I’ve got other plans.

Apart from the me thing, Danny looks quite comfortable, shuffling papers around on his lap and drinking coffee with his long-lost sister. After the last few days it’s a surprise for sure, but Lou’s face is the real kicker. That light. That thread.

When I go back inside, I think it’s interesting how I’ve stopped gagging at the thought of cornflakes every morning. I might actually be starting to like them, which is definite proof that stranger things have happened. I glance out through the back door and my uncle’s still there, and I know it’s real, that tiny faraway glow I saw behind my mother’s eyes. And it’s getting stronger.

Be careful what you wish for, chica.

Isn’t it funny how some small things are really big things in disguise.

That’s not a question.

One time last year, Lou didn’t leave the sofa for about three weeks, let alone the flat. She told the people she works with we’d gone to Majorca; she told me that when she had a shower (something that was only happening at my insistence at that stage), if she pulled her tracksuit pants halfway up, then sat down on the edge of the bath to put on her socks and slippers, she only had to bend down once. Small things.

When I came home that same day with the shopping I’d got on the way back from school, I found her lying on the floor. I panicked and dropped all the bags, thinking she was hurt. She was just resting, she said. Resting, on the way between the sofa and the bathroom. Small things.

But when I got down there on the floor next to her, with Tesco bags spilling eggs and yoghurt and bananas around us, even though there were a lot of things she couldn’t do right then – like eating or getting dressed or going outside – and even though I was trying to work out how I was going to get her the rest of the way to the sofa, I knew she was still Lou. Still my mother. Just the resting version of her, like poor deluded Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye, which they made us read for English last term. I knew from the first paragraph it was an autobiography.

I put my head on her shoulder and closed my eyes, and I could feel the hum of her blood moving around her body. And just for a minute, I relaxed and it was like, Yeah, you go, girl. You made it halfway. Small things.