‘He’s James, Mum, he’ll always be James.’ Her daughter said it as if it was a matter of life and death. Which of course it was to her.

‘Well, that’s your call, love. He’s your son after all.’

Cynthia nodded in agreement. ‘Can you keep Gabriella for a few more days, just until I get into a routine?’

Mary nodded silently. She had been looking after Gabby for nearly six weeks now and, apart from Jimmy popping in most evenings to see his daughter, she might as well be an orphan, because Cynthia didn’t bother with her at all.

James Junior was now a month old, and it looked like Cynthia was going to be the same with this child as she was with poor little Gabby. She fed him, changed him, and washed him, he was immaculately turned out, and well cared for in every way – outwardly that is – but she never picked him up unless she had to. Cynthia only did what she felt was expected of her. It was frightening to admit that his own mother, her daughter, had no real love for him. Because she knew that she didn’t. She didn’t truly care for either of her children. It was as if love was beyond her. Mary wished she knew how to stop it, how to make her daughter see the mistake she was making. Tell her how she saw through her – her life, her marriage and her sorry attempt at being a mother. She never comforted or played with her children, showed them any love or maternal instinct. Yes, she catered for their welfare, but she always kept her distance from them somehow. Cynthia always seemed to be on the periphery of their lives, never at the centre of it like she should have been.