He gives me a look. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I’ll talk to Mum about it instead.”

“How’s work?”

His blatant change of subject says a lot, but I don’t mind. I have a new therapist, a man this time, Christian, to share fresh stories with. It feels good, like crisp, blank stationery at the beginning of a September school term.

“Work is busy,” I reply to Dad’s question. “Lots of festive weddings and anniversaries.”

I stopped photographing christenings and naming ceremonies over a year ago. Now that my family situation is different, maybe I’ll be able to face capturing hope and innocent happiness again.

I leave him to his ritual. He likes to read the pub’s free newspaper, picking out stories to get outraged by. I’ll get a different reaction from my mother; his comments have touched a nerve.

I never used to enjoy talking to my mum much about personal things, but it’s different now. From my eighteenth birthday onward, she impressed upon me the importance of not leaving it too late to have a baby because of her own struggles. Mum conceived me at forty-six, after a late miscarriage the previous year. Nina was nine months older than me. I sometimes imagined her to be the sister I never had.

Every time I see my mother, I hope (and pray) that this is the time that I can share the news of my pregnancy. I imagine her face lighting up. My failed relationship with Ben feels like a huge letdown on my part.

“Ben left me,” I say, turning away from her and toward the window so that she can’t see the tears forming.

I take a deep breath, pull myself together.

“But I’m fine. I’m moving in with Stuart temporarily to help him out. Dad’s not impressed, just to warn you because he’ll undoubtedly tell you. He actually took an extra-large gulp of his cider before he said I was going to get sucked into Nina’s affairs all over again.”

I make a face. My mum has always laughed at my expressions. “If the wind changes, your face will get stuck like that,” she said the first time I ever did it.

“But I know what I’m doing,” I continue quickly before she says anything I don’t want to hear either.

Mum confided in me several times that aging was a shock to her. “My grandmother warned me that time passed quickly,” she said. “But I never fully appreciated just how fast.” I am reminded of those words every time I see her. I must seize my moment while I can.

Despite getting everything off my chest, I leave feeling strange. The first day in my new home was disorientating because I wasn’t sure how to feel. Despite my familiarity with the house, I reexplored all the rooms with fresh, critical eyes now that it was my living space. It didn’t take long to unpack. I scattered personal belongings—recipe books on the kitchen shelf, my favorite winter coat on the rack, towels in the linen cupboard—discreet, innocuous things. It’s my home now, too.