Homesickness kicked in badly. A yearning to get away from the island grew. I pushed away my instinct that Nina and Camilla’s smiles were too bright, their reassurances too OTT. Because, deep down, I still hoped that Charlie would at least come back to say goodbye, but Nina (especially) and Camilla were so full of care and concern.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” they said. “If you still feel the same way when you get back, you can have it out with him at home. We can’t miss our flights just because he’s being selfish and inconsiderate.”

I should have been stronger and ignored them. I hate that I allowed myself to be so easily manipulated. And I wish I’d known what I know now back then. It would’ve saved me—and others—so much angst.

Mum opens her eyes and stares at me. Briefly, I think she recognizes me. But seconds later, the slight recognition I hoped I saw has gone again. I really am on my own with this.

Nina bequeathed me her share of the problem. I’d love to tell Mum lots more, like how they lied to me about what time they got in after their night out. They claimed it was earlier. I thought it was because Nina was trying to give the impression that the party hadn’t been that amazing after all, to stop me from feeling so bad about myself and the situation with Charlie. How I hate that I thought so well of her. I don’t say any more. All this guilt and regret won’t change a thing.

“Be safe,” Mum says.

She used to say that to me every time I went out. She said it before I went to Ibiza and “that it was a dangerous world out there.” It was stifling. One of my therapists suggested that it sounded like she had struggled a lot when I reached the teenage years and craved freedom. “You’re precious to me,” was another phrase she used a lot.

We sit in silence. I hope that whatever her thoughts or memories are, they’re happier than mine.

Upon my dad’s return, he is very keen to know how we got on. His barely disguised hope—that maybe it could become a regular thing—brings a lump to my throat. I am a bad daughter to have never offered before.

I arrive home to a postcard faceup on the mat. It depicts our village during bluebell season. Spiteful words litter the back, the ridiculously bad handwriting clearly a disguise.

What goes around, comes around. You will get your comeuppance because bad luck will haunt you until your dying days.

I scroll through the CCTV, but no one comes to our front door apart from the postman. It’s only later, after hours of wasted time, that I take proper note of our address and the second-class stamp. It’s the first time a message hasn’t been hand delivered.

Enraged and discouraged, I sift through all of the old messages and cards apart from the first one burned in the fire. I’ve logged everything else.