Mum showed me a photo of her and Claire and told me a story I’d heard seven thousand times. I didn’t mind, though, because I didn’t concentrate on the words. I looked at her face, which was shining and happy, and a horrible hot, aching feeling in my throat threatened tears. In a few weeks I was supposed to leave the country and I hadn’t told Dad I didn’t want to. I was afraid I’d end up going by default, swept along by the momentum of his expectations, following a plan I’d made when I was heartbroken and looking to escape. And now I felt that itch to escape my life again. But if I did that I wouldn’t be able to come here every day, or even every week or month. When I arrived that morning Mum wasn’t surprised or distressed by me turning up at her door. She let me in and she was relaxed as we talked. What if all that went away when I couldn’t keep up the routine? I knew she didn’t really remember she had a daughter, but most of the time she knew I was someone she was familiar with. That was something. It was a pathetic scrap of something, but it meant everything to me. If I didn’t turn up every morning, would I become a complete stranger? How come abandoning my mother still felt like she was abandoning me?

The thought made me feel achingly lonely. Then I thought of Dad wrapping presents for himself and I wondered if he felt the same thing. If we were two people feeling lonely in the exact same way. Was it so hard to see him leave her because I knew that if I was ever going to be free to make my own life, I might have to do the same thing?

“Who’s this?” I asked Mum, pointing at a picture of her with Claire. They were sitting in front of a mirror, putting makeup on. Mum looked like she was trying to refuse having her picture taken, Claire was preening for the camera.

“That’s me,” Mum said, pointing at herself and laughing.

“Who’s that?” I asked, indicating Claire.

Mum inspected the photograph. She held the book closer to her face and her forehead wrinkled in concentration. She looked at me, a bit lost.

“That’s you?” she asked.

The picture was from about 1985. It was a party. Claire wore a horrible shiny dress and had little lace gloves on. Not exactly my style.

I put my arm around her and pulled her into a hug. “That’s you and Claire,” I said, and I kissed her on the head, which smelled of apple shampoo.