I couldn’t believe she was getting married again. Would she change her name? No longer be a Harding? My father’s name dropped after all the years they were married? She was like a different person since he died. Morphed into someone new, someone who only cared about herself. Could Patrick save her? Could I trust her when she said he was trying to help her stop drinking? I never knew what to believe. I stayed with her for a couple of weeks after Dad died, both of us holed up in shock. I missed the signs then, assuming it was grief and would eventually pass. When she was drunk, which became most of the time, she’d be violent. Smashing up the house, hurling abuse at everybody, you couldn’t reason with her. She’d forgotten I was grieving too. In the end it became too much, and I came back to Sutton. I spent the next month waiting for my phone to ring. For her local doctor to call and tell me they’d found her dead; that she’d drunk herself to oblivion. She was still going though and now she’d found herself a husband. I was sure his son owning the off-licence wasn’t a coincidence, probably how they met but I hoped she’d turn things around. There was no way I’d be going to the wedding. I couldn’t watch her marry Dad’s replacement. I wanted her to be happy, but it would hurt too much. I had my own shit going on with Ian to deal with.

Him turning up again out of the blue was worrying. It was starting to become a habit. Perhaps he was checking I was telling the truth. It was amusing to watch him run rings around my mother. Thankfully she kept quiet about the lenses. It struck me when she was airing all my flaws that I was sat at the table with two people that had caused me more pain than anyone else. My life was so fucked up.

When I woke, I heard banging in the kitchen and it was a few seconds before I remembered my mother had stayed over. Dragging myself out of bed, I ventured into the kitchen, surprised to see her frying eggs on the stove. She wore an oversized T-shirt that just covered her backside, sinewy legs on show and a cigarette hanging from her lips. Patrick must think her a delight.

‘Morning sleepyhead,’ she said, nodding to the coffee waiting for me on the table. Hers already half empty and the ashtray full. I opened the window to disperse the lingering smoke. It was going to take ages to fumigate the flat when she went.

‘Morning.’ I glanced at Ben’s door. It was still shut and for once I prayed he had stayed at Amy’s.

‘Your lodger didn’t come home then?’

‘No, he works nights, Mum.’