On the night I saw Norman’s amendments to the Five-Year Plan we lay on his bed together for a long time, just staring at it without either of us saying a word. I could feel the heat from his psoriasis seeping through his pajamas like a third person, mixing in with the smell of toothpaste and still, faintly, cheese. Even though it always flared up when he was stressed or tired or had overdosed on dairy and wheat, so I thought I was prepared for what was coming, in the weeks after Jax died Norman’s skin condition took on epic proportions. The worst it had ever been. It looked like it was positively gloating. Spreading across his arms, legs and torso and creeping up the inside of his neck to fringe his chin and cheeks like a rosy Amish beard. Claiming its best friend back. Where ya been, buddy?

As usual, it fell to the more mature one of us to break the deadlocked silence. And when Norman’s voice finally hiked across the great divide of blankets it was high-pitched and wobbly, reminding me of the younger, lonelier, pre-Jax version of my boy that I thought had gone forever.

“It doesn’t mean anything, Mum. Honest. It doesn’t matter. It’s just, I dunno. I didn’t even... I don’t... I just thought maybe...” Yes, Norman, I wanted to say. Maybe. Maybe your biological father will get over the shock of finding out he has a fully formed preteen son as a result of a brief encounter in a pub car park or a student bedsit with a totally forgettable girl. Maybe he and his lovely wife will be delighted at the prospect of a new addition to their family of high-achieving kids. And maybe the Edinburgh Fringe will welcome an unknown twelve-year-old boy with dubious comic timing as their headline act and the next year you’ll sell out Wembley and your father will be the proudest man alive, clapping from the front row.

Maybe all that will happen and you’ll be too busy and too deliriously happy to remember about your dead best friend and having to look after your mother, when she should be looking after you. Point number one continued to hover insolently in the space between the wall and the bed, wafting its accusing breath over me. I wanted to knock its bloody block off.

I could hear the branches of the apple tree in our front garden banging up against the window downstairs. I’d been meaning to get them trimmed back for about two years. Hadn’t got around to it. Just like I hadn’t got around to giving Norman a father. Just like I hadn’t got around to jumping back on the ride of life with the rest of the human race since my own father died. Bloody serves me right now—and where did that come from?

My mouth was so thick with unspoken words I was nearly gagging. Pick a few and just say them. But that big, greasy word soup slurping around in my mouth was swirling so fast I couldn’t quite get a tongue hold on the right ones. The good mother ones. Open wide, Sadie.