She eases herself into a sitting position, cautiously, as if everything aches. “I’m just knackered. Long day.”

“Why’s Nick outside?”

“He’s on his way to the shop. We’re out of milk, toilet paper . . . basically everything. I’ve been a bit useless. Thank God for Nick, eh?”

I can’t bring myself to agree. Thank God for Nick. “Have you two argued?”

“’Course not. I just needed a lie-down and he offered to pop out. Now, are you going to make some tea?”

“You haven’t drunk the ones out there.”

She adjusts her position and there it is again, the wince of pain, but she forces chirpiness into her voice. “I’d forgotten about those. Better make some fresh, eh?”

Reluctantly I go back to the kitchen. As the kettle boils I hear next door’s kids squealing, and Mrs. Begum watching a game show on the other side, the volume so high her speakers become a death rattle. Outside the window a plane draws its frothy trail across the sky and I wonder about the people on board, who they are and where they’re escaping to.

I can’t find the mug that Mum likes her tea in, the purple one with the daffodils on it that I bought her for Mother’s Day. It makes me cross, frustrated. Nothing’s going right, nothing’s as it should be. I give up and use her second favorite, but when I chuck away the tea bags I catch sight of a glinting purple shard inside the bin. I reach my hand in deep. Carefully I dig out smashed pieces of crockery, painted yellow petals: Mum’s favorite mug, broken.

The kettle peaks and falls silent. Still staring at the rubbish, I tune back in to the noises in our own flat. Mum moving around her room, opening her wardrobe, the rustle of clothes. She’s getting changed. This is my chance. I drop the shards back into the bin and tiptoe to the slightly open door of her bedroom. And though I feel weird about spying, I put my eye to the gap.

Ever since I saw that bruise I’ve been frantic. Watching her. Watching him. The way she sometimes flinches when he touches her, the way he pulls back and they both look at me. At school, as it gets to the time he usually finishes work in the big British Telecom office on the industrial estate, I can’t concentrate for thinking about what might be happening at home. Even in English class, which I usually don’t ever want to end, all I’m doing is waiting for the bell, trying not to feel sad that I’m disappointing my favorite teacher with my distraction.