I return the phone to my pocket and examine the damage. Just one of the beads is broken, but it seems a clean break – fixable, I hope. I pick up the pieces and put them in my pocket along with the rest of the necklace. I fold up the letter, return it to where it was in the folder and slot the folder back into the drawer. I want to root around further, see if there’s any evidence of Julia’s parentage, but Jorge’s text has unnerved me, as though he’s watching me, and I’ve already done enough damage. So I stand up from the bed, smooth away the indent on the duvet cover, and slip out of the room.

I dish out ice lollies to the kids and the three of us sit on the grass in silence, the sun on our faces and sticky orange sliding down our fingers. With my other hand I take out my phone and open maps, type in Thun. It could be her. Julia’s A. Meier could be my Anna Meier. My birth mother. Perhaps she’s still there, or perhaps she left years ago.

The only way to know is to go and find out.

I fix Julia’s necklace late at night when the rest of the house is in bed. There’s an uncommon stillness that’s slightly eerie in a home usually so full of noise. I sit cocooned in the low glow of my bedroom and wallow in the welcome quiet.

I piece the fragments of the broken bead back together and glue them with a fixative I found in the kitchen drawer. I don’t understand what it says on the tube, but it looks like the sturdy kind of stuff I’ve used at home. I wonder what my tenant is doing now. Lying in the bed I once shared with Patrick, perhaps. Or maybe watching a film, making herself a cup of tea with my kettle.

I take my time, carefully pushing the pieces together and scraping the excess glue away when it oozes out. I don’t want the cracks to show; I don’t want Julia to know I’ve been in there, snooping.

I won’t do it again. I’ll just pop in briefly one day when everyone’s out so I can put the necklace back, hopefully before Julia’s missed it. There were so many necklaces hanging from the mirror that I somehow doubt she’ll notice.

I lie back on my bed waiting for the glue to dry. My hand goes to my neck, touches the delicate silver chain I wear every day, the one Mum gave me on my wedding day. I remember how her eyes filled up and how that shocked me, because forthright, confident, stoic Mum never cried. Took her back to her own, she said. Stirred up memories.