I don’t know how I manage to act normally, but somehow I do. Ross is right. I can’t just confront them about this. I can’t put them on the spot by asking them outright. What I can do, though, at some point over the weekend, is ask Mum if we can look at my baby box together and then maybe, just maybe, I can casually open the envelope and read the card out. Far better for the conversation to evolve naturally. It’s sneaky, I know, but no less sneaky than keeping me in the dark all these years.

The right moment happens a couple of hours later. Dad and Ross are having a whiskey together in the back room and talking about rugby. Mum and I are watching an old film, or rather, we’re half watching it while Mum knits and I flick through old copies of her magazines. If it weren’t for the contents of that card still rampaging through my mind, it would be the perfect lazy afternoon.

“I was thinking, do you still have my old baby box?” I’m aware of the tremor in my voice, how awkward I sound, but Mum doesn’t seem to notice.

“Of course I still have it,” she says. “It’s one of my most treasured possessions.”

“Can I have a look at it? It’s ages since I’ve been through it.”

Mum places her knitting on the cushion beside her and springs to her feet, smiling. “Good idea. I’ll go and fetch it, shall I? I’m getting fed up with this silly film, aren’t you?”

My heart beats faster while I wait for her to return. She’s taking a long while. I hope I put the box back the right way or she’ll know straightaway that I’ve already had a look.

Finally, she comes back into the room and puts the pink box on the coffee table between us, lifts the lid, and pulls out the same pair of bootees I marveled at earlier.

“Oh, Lizzie, look at these! I remember your tiny pink feet in my hands. How they used to curl and uncurl. Your nails were soft as paper.”

For several minutes we ooh and aah over the bootees and the little hat and the teething ring, me acting as if it’s the first time I’ve seen them in years. I lift out the wodge of baby cards and open each one in turn, reading out the messages while Mum lies back in her armchair and smiles, or makes little comments about the senders.

“Jenny’s husband died a few years ago. Did I tell you?

“Goodness me, Sheila Haynes. I haven’t seen her in a while. I think she moved to Wales.

“Amy Carter’s daughter is on a gap year in Thailand. The poor woman’s going out of her mind with worry.”