“What do you mean? They call you every time Mum has a wobbler.”

“Because I asked them to. They’re professionals. They’re perfectly capable of dealing with it themselves, but I don’t like the idea of Liz being upset without me being there.” He sighed. “I don’t know if it matters that much, though. Half the time she’s settled by the time I get there.”

“So why go?” I asked. I didn’t know what I wanted the answer to be.

“I love her,” he said.

“Try guilt,” I said. “If it were love she wouldn’t be there.”

“Do you really think that your mum is in a home because I didn’t love her enough?” He seemed to squeeze the words out through a constricted windpipe.

I heard a plea for absolution in those words. I saw it on his face. Tell me I’m not a terrible person.

But the real question for me was, do I think my mother is in a home because I didn’t love her enough? Would someone love me enough to stay with me when I couldn’t take care of myself? Would I want them to?

I didn’t say anything and he closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them he handed me a CD case he was carrying.

“Here, I found this when we were packing up. I thought you might want to have a look. I don’t think we ever showed it to you. You don’t have to watch it, of course. But don’t lose it.”

When he was gone I opened the case and on the CD inside, written in black Sharpie, was one word. Wedding.

When Dad and Beth had left for work I got out of bed. I knew where our old DVD player was, in a box I’d labeled “ancient artifacts” sitting in the hallway. I pulled it out from beneath a tangle of cables, leaving an actual cassette player, the landline I’d called Ruby on, and a half a dozen old mobile phones on the tiles.

Once it was hooked up I sat close to the TV, my thumbnail in my mouth and a tumbling feeling in my stomach. I wanted to watch it from behind a cushion, the way I watched horror films when I was little.