‘I wish it had been different, sweetheart. That they could have met you. Maybe if I’d had brothers or sisters it might have been easier too. We could have grieved together.’ Then she sat up straighter. ‘But we did our best, Eliza, didn’t we? We made our own little family, in our own way. You and me, with Maxie and Olivia like our sun and our moon, shining down on us. That’s poetic of me, isn’t it?’

Then, three years later, Eliza had been told a different story. That her grandparents had been part of a right-wing religious cult in which women were only there to serve. That Jeannie had run away from them.

And gone to a Catholic boarding school? Eliza had asked, truly bewildered.

‘It seemed like a good hiding place,’ her mother said. ‘Who would think to look for me there?’

During one of her holidays with Olivia, a sunny beachside stay in Queensland, Eliza summoned up the courage to ask about her mother’s family. Which of the stories was true? She’d tried to be lighthearted about it. Make it sound as if her mother’s ever-changing tales were all just great fun.

Olivia hadn’t found it funny. She had quietly asked Eliza questions. That night, when Eliza knew Olivia thought she was asleep, she’d heard her phone Maxie. She crept to the door to eavesdrop.

‘I can’t believe it, Maxie. Jeannie clearly thinks it’s funny, but it’s almost child abuse. One minute her grandparents are dead in a terrible car crash, the next they’re leaders of some kind of religious cult.’ Eliza wished she could also hear what Maxie was saying. ‘No, don’t you remember? That time they visited? I know, cold as ice but —’ It was all she’d heard before Olivia shut the door.

Eliza and her mother didn’t have a phone at that time. It had been cut off. Olivia handed Eliza a sealed envelope to give to Jeannie as soon as she arrived home. ‘It’s me telling her how wonderful you have been and what a great traveller you are,’ she said. ‘But even so, please don’t read it.’

Jeannie was at the airport to collect her. She’d swept Eliza up into a hug, showered her with kisses. It was only when they got home that Eliza remembered Olivia’s envelope. She gave it to her mother and went to unpack, imagining her mum reading all the nice things Olivia had said about her, smiling as she refolded her T-shirts and dresses, then neatly arranged her shoes inside her wardrobe.

The smashing of a glass in the kitchen made her leap. Her mother was shouting.

‘Fuck you, Olivia, Mrs Fucking Know-It-All without any fucking kids of her own telling me how I can or can’t raise my daughter. Well, fuck you. That’s the last time you see Eliza again, you interfering —’

Eliza ran out, heart pounding. ‘What’s wrong? Was it me? Doesn’t Olivia want to see me again?’

Her mother stopped tearing the pages into tiny scraps. ‘What, Eliza?’