The wardrobe is an art deco mahogany armoire. Solid and imposing with an internal mirror. I used to think it was ugly and old-fashioned. Now I think it’s beautiful.

My eyes travel along the rail of Mum’s clothes and I notice that she has swapped her mismatched hangers for those satin-padded ones. She has arranged her shoes at the bottom, all paired up neatly on lining paper, and for a second or two I think she must have put the baby box somewhere else, but then I see it, tucked into the corner right at the back with a pair of old sandals on top of it.

I draw it out and kneel down on the carpet. The first thing I see when I take the lid off is the little pink book that lists all my vaccinations and developmental milestones. The section I loved the most as a child was the one that recorded things like when I first smiled and how old I was when I first used a spoon.

I turn the pages and read the sentences in Mum’s lovely neat handwriting. Then I pick up a pair of tiny bootees and marvel at how my feet must once have fitted inside. Knowing Mum’s love of knitting, she’ll probably already be planning which bootees she’s going to make for my baby.

Next to catch my eye is the ring box containing my first lock of hair. I open it up and stroke the pale, gingery-blond curl, so delicate and fine. There’s a teething ring, too, a tiny white hat with a little bobble on top, and a big wodge of congratulation cards.

I start reading them, although I’ve no idea who most of these people are. As a child, I was only interested in the pictures on the front. Mum used to read out some of the messages to me. This one is a “congratulations on your bump” card. It’s a line drawing of a heavily pregnant woman. I open it up. “Dear Sue,” it says, in large, scruffy handwriting at the top on the left.

Just then, a car pulls up outside. I drop the card onto the floor and go to the window. Mum won’t mind me looking in this box, I’m sure she won’t, it’s all about me as a baby, after all, but perhaps I should have asked before going through her wardrobe. In fact, I know I should have.

It’s not my parents, though. It’s the neighbor’s car. Even so, they’ll be back soon and I don’t want them to find me in their bedroom. I’ll put the box back where it was and ask Mum about it later. We’ll go through it together.