Even though I’ve been thinking a similar thing, I can’t help being annoyed. ‘Dad never wanted me to go to Balmoral in the first place.’

He said it was a school for the elite and he complains every time he has to pay his half for field trips or uniforms. Mum thinks if she has those phone conversations in the laundry I won’t hear them, but I do.

‘Well, your dad wasn’t exactly supportive of my desire to have an education either.’ Mum picks up my sketchbook from the side table.

I want to ask her whether she thinks I should switch back, but the words stick in my throat.

‘You know there’s no reason to think that you’re in real danger, don’t you, Chlo? This kind of thing is so rare, even though it probably doesn’t seem like that right now.’

‘I know.’

And I do know. At least the rational part of me does. I wish someone would tell my body though, because I keep catching myself with my hands curled tightly, my shoulders tensed for no good reason.

I watch as Mum leafs through my carefully drawn cityscapes, the botched life drawings, my first linocut attempts that didn’t turn out too badly at all. My sketchbook is more of a work of art than my actual finished pieces, even though it’s messy and confused. It’s my precious baby, the closest thing I have to a journal or diary.

‘Have you finished your homework yet?’

Her casual tone doesn’t fool me.

‘I’ve done all of my homework, and I’m up-to-date with my reading,’ I say, even though this technically isn’t true. There is no such thing as being up-to-date at Balmoral—that falls into the realms of impossible. ‘And I take Art, so this is homework too.’

I chose all my electives at the start of the year, under the strict eye of Mrs Benjamin. I got the distinct impression that academic scholarship recipients were expected to focus on STEM subjects, instead of pursuing anything creative, so I had to dig my heels in to get my two units of Art.

Mum kisses me on the forehead and stands up. I know she’s far from being a tiger mum, but she might have finished her landscape architecture degree, might have had a completely different career, a different life, if she hadn’t had babies, or had babies with a different man, or hadn’t gotten divorced. I know my life is supposed to turn out differently to hers.

‘I see how hard you work, hon.’ Mum frowns at my mug. ‘But please don’t drink that crap so late in the day.’

NATALIA

DAY 6