I paused. It was my moment to say, no, not really, but I couldn’t just pour it all out. I could already picture her disappointment, the oh, Suzanne, how could you? Guilt again, so much guilt. I couldn’t be in denial about what I’d done if I told her, said it out loud. ‘Yeah. It’s just – when you were having me, did Dad go a bit . . . funny? Like, over-protective?’

‘Oh no, dear, your father was very gentle. He’d hardly say boo to a goose.’ I remembered so little of him, every memory bulldozed aside by the force of my mother’s personality. That was her moment to probe me, ask what I meant, but she didn’t. I would have to carry the burden of this talk alone.

‘It’s just that Nick – he worries so much. He doesn’t really like me going places without him, or getting upset, and he kind of monitors what I eat and drink all the time.’

She rustled the magazine. ‘Someone needs to, darling. I know what you’re like with the biscuits. And the wine! You haven’t been drinking, have you?’

Disappointment made my fingers tingle. She was doing her best not to understand. ‘Of course not. It’s just – now I don’t earn, I have to ask him for money, and I hate that. It means I can’t go anywhere without asking. I’m so isolated out there.’

She sighed. ‘I did say not to buy that place.’ The old I told you so – could anything be less helpful when you were there, admitting you’d been wrong, begging for help?

‘You did. Happy to be right?’ My tone was sharp. She looked up.

‘Darling, I think you’re tired. Maybe an early night?’

‘I’m not tired. I’m trying to talk to you, and you’re just – shutting me down.’

She looked bewildered, and I realised she genuinely had no idea she did this. In her head she was a lovely, supportive, generous mother. ‘I’m right here. What is it you’re trying to say? You want your own money? You could always go back to work after the baby comes, commute in.’