It’s quieter than ever once Stuart has taken the children to school. I sit at the kitchen table and reply to client queries. I must get working again properly, but I can’t concentrate.

I distract myself by looking up pregnancy facts during the second trimester. Just reading about swollen ankles and tiredness makes me yawn and twist my wedding ring around my finger as though my fingers might swell any moment. I’m not used to wearing one. I study it. He’s promised that later on down the line we can buy something bigger, if it’s more to my taste, and an engagement ring, too, if I’d like one. It sums up our relationship perfectly: everything is backward.

I stand up and walk around the house.

Nina’s presence is fading, but never her memory. I forget that I am living her old life for days at a time now. I’ve tried so hard for the children’s sake to replace Nina that I don’t even think like myself at times, until something happens, like a random caller phones the landline and asks to speak to Ms Beaufort. It grates as I have to explain—yet again—that Nina has gone.

In my more paranoid or low moments, when I question my actions, I wonder if Nina knows somehow what I’ve done (I appreciate it’s irrational). Deborah knows and judges, as do anonymous people. The more I think about it, the more I wouldn’t put it past her to send the flowers and cards. Nina’s unpredictable moods and selfishness came from somewhere. I wonder if Deborah would change her mind about me if she knew what her precious daughter was capable of?

What I crave, more than anything, is a good dose of my mother’s sensible, no-nonsense advice. Usually, I ring my dad and let him know that I’m coming, but the urge to visit is so overwhelming that I just pick up my bag, get in my Mini and drive to my childhood home.

Their neighbor answers the door.

“Hi, Pam,” I say. “Dad not in?”

“He’s gone to the supermarket. I’ve educated him about online deliveries, but I think he enjoys the outing between you and me.”

“How’s Mum?”

“She’s quiet today.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s at the back, in the conservatory.”

My mother is in a straw-colored wicker chair facing the garden. I pull up a chair beside her. Mum’s frailness gets to me every time. Her hair is neatly brushed, but the parting is wrong. She doesn’t look herself. I sit beside her.

“Hi, Mum,” I say.

I take her hand. She looks at me as if she’s expecting me to say more. Now that the moment’s here, now that the time feels right, I’m scared. I’ve imagined this for so long. I waffle, skirt around the subject because I know that once I get into the more natural swing of it, it’s easier talking to my mother than it is to Christian because there’s no expectation. I find I speak the most I have in a long time. My mother looks interested, makes the odd random comment and she does seem to enjoy the sound of my voice, so it gives me confidence to continue.