As a waitress brings her a small pot of green tea, Penelope hears a soft sob and turns her head to the table beside her. There’s a woman of a similar age to herself sitting alone with a glass of wine, her face etched with sadness. She catches Penelope looking at her and is visibly embarrassed. Her hands move to wipe away tears and push hair off her face. Penelope feels bad for catching her in such a moment and tries to look away.

‘Sorry, I’m not usually like this,’ the woman says, calling Penelope’s attention back.

Penelope gives a small smile, ready to turn away and offer her some privacy in the small cafe by the sea.

But the woman goes on. ‘My mum died a month ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Penelope’s heart stings, as it always does, remembering the pain. It rushes back a little too quickly today.

The woman waves away the condolences; she’s no doubt been offered the same sympathetic expressions for the past month. ‘I think I must have been in shock when it first happened because I’ve been fine.’ She reconsiders her words. ‘Maybe not fine, but coping.’

Penelope nods. ‘It’s horrible when the reality of it sinks in.’

‘Your mother died too?’

Penelope hadn’t intended on telling this woman anything about her own experience. ‘A while ago now.’

‘You must have been young?’

Penelope can tell she’s studying her face, probably trying to determine how old she is. ‘Seventeen.’

The woman’s eyes fill with sympathy. ‘What a horrible time to lose your mum.’ She shakes her head, realising what she’s said. ‘Oh, you know what I mean. Any time is awful, but at seventeen you should be out partying and having fun.’

Penelope feels her face strain, thinking back to those dark days. Looking back, she realises she missed out on pivotal milestones in her teenage years but she’s glad she hadn’t cared about it at the time. She hadn’t been longing for nights out with her friends, parties till dawn or to fool around with guys. All she’d wanted was more time with her mum. Seventeen years hadn’t been enough. She’d greedily wanted more, decades more, but as it had been coming to an end, all she’d wanted was another day, another hour.

‘I guess I should count myself lucky. I’m thirty-five. I got double the time you did,’ the woman says, somewhat chastising herself.

‘There’s never enough time.’ Penelope’s still trying to come to terms with that.

‘I thought we had years before I’d have to say goodbye,’ she says, leaning forward to have another sip of her wine. ‘She just turned sixty-two.’

‘That is young.’ Her own mother had been only weeks away from turning thirty-nine, but it wasn’t time to compare.