We went back to our table to drink our tea and finish the scones. A few minutes later I saw the man talking to the waitress and pointing in the direction of the toilets. He was really racking up the busybody points today. I turned away from him and silently prayed my mother would finish her tea soon so we could leave.

“Hi. I’m sorry I was rude to you there. I didn’t know.”

The man loomed over us, and though his words were technically remorseful, he seemed so unused to apologizing they came out like hard, constipated little words, straining out of the puckered arsehole he called a mouth.

“Didn’t know what?” I said in clipped, disdainful tones.

“The waitress said there’s something wrong with your mum. I didn’t realize. She doesn’t look . . .” He trailed off, but he wasn’t done yet. “Anyway, she said you care for her, and I think that’s really admirable.” He looked at me more with pity than with admiration, though, and he didn’t look at Mum at all, even though she was the one who deserved the apology.

I wanted to tell him off. Give a moving speech in defense of minding your own business and not judging people. Later in bed I’d think of the words, but I didn’t have them right then. The man didn’t wait for a response either; he sauntered off, smugly thinking he’d been so humble and nice today. I concentrated very hard on my scone.

“I have to go now,” Mum said suddenly, breaking my focus.

I recognized the hint of urgency in her tone. She was getting upset.

“Everything’s OK,” I said soothingly. I didn’t want that guy to ruin her day. “We’re having a nice time.”

Her forehead creased into a frown and she pulled the kind of face you make when you smell something unpleasant.

“I really do have to go now. I have work.” She looked around the café. “Can you take me home?”

“Mum, please.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “We’re having a nice time. Everything is OK. You don’t need to go yet.”

“I have to go.” She stomped her foot under the table. I hated myself for checking to see if the waitress was watching us now. For a second, I was so angry I wanted to stomp my foot too. Mostly I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her, your dad is dead and you had to quit your job because you couldn’t remember your own last name. You have literally nowhere better to be. I pressed hard into the scar on my palm. I needed to breathe and calm down.

Mum looked so lost. The clouded expression on her face broke my heart. I stared up at the ceiling so I wouldn’t cry. It would only make it worse.