‘Maybe, but he’s a frail, sick man. I’m not one to tell you all what to do, but it might be worth talking with other family members about a rota for overnight care. Even in the interim, until he rallies a bit.’

I can’t help but roll my eyes. ‘Other family members’ – as if there’s a queue. As if I haven’t been spending the last few days calling everyone I know remotely connected with Joe to try to ease the burden on my shoulders.

‘I’ve a young baby to consider, you know,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ll mention it to Ciara. There aren’t many more options.’

‘You’re a good girl,’ Dr Sweeney says, a master at being patronising. ‘And for what it’s worth, babies are very adaptable at this one’s age. As long as they’ve a bed to sleep in at night they don’t mind too much disruption to their surroundings.’

I resist the urge to tell him to piss off.

Thankfully he leaves a little later, after eating the better part of half a packet of biscuits and dusting the crumbs onto the floor. As I close the door behind him I hear Joe call from the bedroom and I climb the stairs, each step feeling heavier and harder than the last.

‘Yes, Joe?’ I ask, opening the door just slightly and peeking in.

‘Was that Dr Sweeney talking to you about night-times?’ he asks, his face a picture of perfect misery.

‘It was.’

‘I don’t want to cause you girls any more trouble,’ he says, ‘but it’s so hard here being on my own, with only my thoughts to keep me company after you all go home to your happy families.’

‘It must be,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll not be round to be a burden on you all for much longer,’ he says.

‘I’ll talk to Ciara,’ I say.

‘Kathleen said she might come over from England,’ he says. ‘Maybe you could call her for me. Tell her I’d like to see her. She might listen to it better from you. Come sooner, you know?’

‘I’ll do that, Joe,’ I say, putting my hand to the door to leave.

‘Heidi …’ His voice is soft, setting my teeth on edge. ‘Could you pray with me?’

I grip the door handle a little tighter, feel the beginnings of the fight or flight fear set in.

‘I’ve things to do,’ I tell him.

‘Just a wee decade of the Rosary,’ he says. ‘It won’t take long and it would mean the world.’

I glance out of the door, I don’t know why. In the vain hope, perhaps, that someone will come and rescue me. There is no one there, of course, just as there has never been anyone there.

‘Please,’ he says.

I nod, cross the room and sit on the chair close to his bed. He lifts his red rosary beads and starts to pray, stopping only to encourage me to speak up when I’m too quiet.

I parrot the words, the rhythm and familiarity of them providing no comfort at all. Tears are sliding down my face.