‘Everyone’s in the kitchen,’ she said, swiftly abandoning it at the bottom of a long wooden staircase. It all smelt a little bit musty, the hemp rug that ran down the hallway threadbare and stained. Still, light from a burning candelabra made it all glow prettily, and the dark wood furniture felt old and stately. I felt a stab of shame – I needed to purge myself of Mum’s ability to deliver a sniper stream of sneering judgements. That was what Amber was offering me – a chance to grow myself towards the light.

Amber pushed open the kitchen door. A group of five people sat around a large pine table, wine glasses and beer cans littering the surface. A jolt of anxiety hit me. Why had I assumed that no one would be drinking? A girl a good ten years younger than me with pink streaks through her hair picked up a bottle of white to top up her glass, and I could almost feel its cool progress down my own throat. All I wanted, when faced with a room full of strangers, was a way to take the edge off.

‘Everyone, this is Rachel. Rachel, this is—’ She giggled, more girlish than I’d seen her before. It made my anxiety spike even more. Was this social Amber? Would this be more like a house party than a retreat? I’d asked so few questions before I’d jumped off the cliff feet first. ‘… well, everyone.’

‘Hi, Rachel,’ they chanted. A guy in his early twenties, cropped dyed blonde hair framing a Peter Pan face, pulled out a chair. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, a European lilt to his voice. ‘I’m Marco.’

‘I’m Hannah,’ said the pink-haired girl, sticking out a hand. Her nails were grubby and bitten. ‘Sorry, bit formal!’ she added, coming over to give me a hug. I awkwardly hugged her from my seated position, my spine jammed upwards, her embrace too close. Her organic deodorant was nowhere near as effective as the health food shop had promised her.

Ugh – it was like Mum was in my head. Even though I despised her sly monologue, missing her felt so unexpectedly visceral that my body almost jackknifed. Can we ever truly exorcize the people who made us, or will they always haunt us, their ghostly voices ventriloquizing out of our throats, or sending up thought bubbles from our fevered brains? Even now – even after everything that’s happened – I still wrestle with that question every single day.