How sweet they were, those nephews of mine! When it was time to leave, I allowed myself the luxury of giving the two Moufti brothers a pinch on the cheek, doting auntie that I was — witnessed by the mobile guards — to show them just how much I loved them.

I settled my mother back into her aged care facility as if she had never left, engaging the assistance of an extra pair of hands, Anta, a young woman from Madagascar, for whose devotion I could now afford to pay a fair wage. The manager returned the box containing her possessions, and Schnookie the soft toy resumed his place at her bedhead. I ran into Madame Léger again in the corridor. The poor thing was no longer speaking at all, and had ended up with a hip fracture following her escapade — which didn’t stop her from continuing to walk around and around in circles like an angry crustacean, pushing her aluminium frame ahead of her.

As I left Les Eoliades, I found her two children sitting on a bench, in mid argument. The Léger daughter was weeping hot tears, while her brother shouted over her as he gnawed at the skin around his nails, his face undone with anxiety. An infinite sadness emanated from the two of them, both in their fifties, who had now been carrying their pain for nine months, like one of those heavy, two-handled baskets you lug around the grocery store. Their father had recently been moved to my floor and no matter what time I went past his room, he would always be leaning forward, strapped into his armchair, and weeping.

“They tell us that old people need to keep themselves hydrated, but I’m always finding the little Evian bottles I bring in because nobody gives him anything to drink, and they’re sitting there unopened . . . And the days I’m not there to feed him, they just put the meal-tray down in his room and close the door. Bon appétit, Monsieur Léger, they say, but nobody gives a damn whether he actually eats or not . . . And did you see how they’ve dressed Mother? It’s 35 degrees and she’s wearing a woollen jumper . . . And her escape . . . That car just knocked her down on the access ramp like a dog . . . Can you imagine if she had got any further? And how dare they ask us to pay for that anti-wandering bracelet she ripped off! I’d like to know where all our money goes.”

Each new grievance would set off the daughter’s sobs again. The situation of that family was so ghastly she could have gone on for hours, and it was a story I knew off by heart.

“It’s always like that over summer, with staff away on holidays. If you like, you can share the extra carer I’ve taken on for my mother . . .”