The sound of her mother’s footsteps alerted Lottie to her imminent arrival.

‘Your coffee’s there.’ Lottie pointed to the table. ‘What happened?’ she whispered.

Her mother glanced at Lottie and Gran. ‘She fell asleep.’

Lottie raised an eyebrow. Still keeping her voice low, she said, ‘So your latest interview technique is to throw things?’

‘I didn’t exactly throw things.’ Her mother walked to the window, collecting her coffee on the way.

Lottie went to her. ‘You once told me that sugar works better than vinegar.’

‘Did I?’

Lottie nodded.

‘I don’t remember.’

She gave her a disbelieving look.

‘Well, in some places it does.’

‘And with your dying mother it might too.’ She turned and looked back at Gran. From here she could see Gran still had a photo clutched in her left hand.

‘I don’t want to be here.’ Her mother’s shoulders dropped.

Lottie rolled her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have known.’

‘It hurts and . . .’ Her mother glanced at Carrickowel.

‘And what?’ She reached out and put a hand on her mother’s shoulder.

She looked back at Gran then to Lottie. ‘And nothing.’

‘Mum.’

Her mother walked to the bed and pulled the Polaroid photograph from Gran’s fingers. ‘Christ.’

‘What?’ Lottie dashed to her side. The picture was a black and white shot of her mother clutching a book. She froze. The diary. She stole a glance at her mother.

‘My diary.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d forgotten it.’

‘Well, that’s good you recognise it.’ Lottie tried smiling.

‘Hardly worth remembering. Not important. Just “Dear Diary” stuff.’

Lottie released the breath she was holding. She clearly didn’t recall what she’d written.

‘Ah, yes, you still have all your diaries from school until now.’ Lottie pictured the white cabinets under the bookcases in her mother’s study. Once Lottie had dared look in them and was told to respect her privacy. God knows what she would think if she knew that Lottie had her childhood diary, hadn’t given it to her immediately, and had read it.

‘Yes, but not this one. It was my first.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Eight.’ She paced, looking at the picture. ‘Tom Martin had given it to me the weekend my father died. The last time I was here.’ She looked at Lottie. ‘No, that’s not true. The last time was in 2008.’

It always circled back to 2008. Sometimes Lottie was deluded enough to think she could move beyond that summer. Beyond the lies she had told. But looking at her mother now, it was as if 2008 formed a wall Lottie couldn’t climb, no matter how hard she tried, despite having been the perfect university student and having worked hard at her career. No, she would perpetually be the eighteen-year-old who lied to her mother and dire consequences resulted ultimately from the lie.