Hannah was the one who got me home in the end. She called her dad to pick us up and they drove me around the town looking for Mum. Hannah held my hand as we traipsed up and down the promenade, along the beaches, through our entire neighborhood. We were still looking when Dad finally turned up. I wanted to shout at him and make him feel bad for not being there, but the stricken look on his face stopped me.

I always thought I lived in a small place until that day. A little seaside town. When I realized my mother could be anywhere, it felt infinite. I didn’t cry all day, though I probably bruised Hannah’s hand I was holding it so tight. Eventually, the police got a call. They picked her up at the side of a dual carriageway. Her face was scratched, a drop of blood trailed from her hairline, and her trousers were soaked with urine. We never found out what happened to her, how she got those scratches. Whether she’d fallen or if someone had hurt her. Part of me wanted to padlock her in a room in our house just so she would still be there, where I could see her every day.

I still resented the relief I saw on Dad’s face when I told him I wouldn’t fight him on the home anymore.

Most of all I tried to pretend I hadn’t felt it too.

“How are you?” Mum asked later, in the museum café. There was no sign of the meltdown she’d had yesterday. She was in good form and had enjoyed wandering around the exhibitions. It was nice to see her in her element. She put her hand on mine. I closed my eyes for a moment and relished the pressure. Mum would always hug me if I went to hug her, but she didn’t always initiate physical contact these days. The waitress put two scones down in front of us and gave Mum a big smile. She was here all the time and I was sure she recognized us by now.

I cut Mum’s scone in half and buttered it and slathered it in jam. She started telling me this story from when she was little, about her dad.

“So every time the season changed I wrote a letter to a new fairy. The spring fairy or the summer fairy. And in the morning I’d go out into the garden and I’d pick up the stone and the note I left would be gone and there was a new note written in fairy language. Dad would tell me what it said because he understood fairy language.” She looked as happy remembering as she probably did those mornings when she found her notes.