Her gaze followed her son as he dragged his feet to the American-style fridge-freezer, the door jingling with bottles as he opened it wide. Her bed was next to the living-room windows, but if she craned her neck, she could see into the kitchen, her favourite room in the house.

‘Here puss, puss,’ Christian called, filling up a cat bowl with milk. A chorus of miaows ensued as her felines joined him in the kitchen and lapped at the bowl.

Elsie watched him bend to stroke each of them in turn. He was a good boy, really. He just needed to be kept in line. She observed him grab the bucket of KFC, one of two he had brought home for her last night. What she wanted and what she needed were two entirely different things. The bucket of chicken would serve as breakfast before he went to work. Opening the freezer door, he grabbed a packet of frozen éclairs, enough to keep her going until he made it home for lunch.

‘About time,’ she said, grabbing the food from his outstretched hands. ‘Now remember what I said. And no swearing. I didn’t raise you to have a potty mouth.’

‘I didn’t swear.’ Christian wiped his hands on the back of his trousers.

‘Bull spit,’ she replied, before sinking her teeth into a chicken wing. ‘You were just about to. And where’s my chocolate milk?’

‘I’m getting it.’ Christian’s head hung low as he turned back to the kitchen. ‘I’m twenty-five, Mom,’ he mumbled. ‘Stop treating me like a kid.’ Elsie frowned as she watched him walk the worn path from the bed to the fridge.

‘Who licked the red from your ice lolly? You’re in a right ol’ stinky mood today,’ she said, as he returned with a two-litre carton of chocolate milk. Glasses were just a formality. It saved on the washing up when she consumed things directly from the pack. She did her bit for the environment.

‘Sorry,’ he sighed, his shoulders slumped. ‘I’m whacked. I’ve been putting in some long hours in the office, then there’s all the housework …’

‘You act like a kid, you get treated like one,’ Elsie said, before he changed the subject and started guilt-tripping her for not helping out. You eat like a pig and you look like one. Her father’s taunt reared its head, one of many in his repertoire. They slipped into her mind at the oddest of moments, a reminder that she could never truly escape. His bones may be dust and dirt, but the taunts lived on. Grabbing a slice of kitchen roll, she wiped away the chicken grease that was sliding down her chin.

She watched Christian cast his eyes over the Kit-Cat novelty clock, its eyes flicking left to right as it relayed the time. The clock was one of many ornaments she had imported from the States.