Leon’s face clouds over, as if he’s got an inkling of what’s coming, but is holding back until he’s proven right. It tells me all I need to know. We don’t need to have a row over something not worth rowing about.

‘So . . .’ I go on, racking my brain to come up with something feasible. ‘So, I was halfway through preparing the meatloaf and I started thinking about Mom . . .’ It’s a cheap shot, but it’s all that I’ve got right now.

Leon’s expression changes to one of sympathy, making me feel even worse.

‘It’s the little things that take me back,’ I say. ‘Meatloaf Mondays were my favourite day of the week, before . . .’

Leon nods, negating the need for me to finish the sentence.

‘Mom would pick me and Jennifer up from school and we’d go to Arthur’s store on the corner to get a candy bar.’ I smile at the memory. ‘Jen would shove hers in her mouth before Mom had even paid for it, but I was mature enough, at ten, to know that it needed to be savoured. So it took me until we were almost home, just to unwrap it.’ I laugh as I picture myself, slowly peeling back the foil of that Hershey’s bar like Charlie Bucket – half expecting a golden ticket to shine out of it.

Leon smiles tightly.

‘And then I’d walk through the front door, smell that meatloaf in the oven and feel the house wrap itself around me. I was home and safe.’ I resist the urge to add, ‘Or so I thought.’

‘So you just went out for some breathing space?’ asks Leon.

I look at him, wondering what he’s talking about.

‘When you were in the middle of making the meatloaf,’ he says, bringing me back to why I started this trip down memory lane.

‘Exactly!’ I say, thankful for the prompt.

Leon puts his knife and fork down and looks at me.

‘Do you not think you’re due a proper break?’ he says.

‘What makes you say that?’ I ask.

‘Because that filing cabinet of yours is definitely overloaded,’ he says, referring to the metaphorical system that I so often call my brain. Every now and again, the drawers get so full that I struggle to withhold the simplest piece of information, and when that happens, I need to take a break and declutter.

‘You’ve not taken any time off for months,’ he goes on. ‘You seem super anxious, you’re losing things, you’re taking yourself back to your mum . . .’

‘I like thinking about her,’ I say defensively.

‘Yes, I know – I didn’t mean that you shouldn’t, but when you start to do it more often and walk out like you did, it’s often an indication of burnout.’

I wish I could tell him that actually wasn’t the case yesterday. Or perhaps it was?