‘No. It doesn’t seem to matter much as long as the tap does its job,’ says Mum from the table. ‘But there are thousands of them to choose from.’

‘Which one do you like?’

‘You know what, Clem? I don’t care at all,’ she says with a sharp laugh. As I look over at her, I see her watching me. It’s the first time I don’t feel the need to look away.

‘Yeah, me neither. But this one’s alright.’ I hold up the one I’ve been playing with and she nods.

‘Great. Let’s go with that, then.’

I laugh without realising, so I stop and put the tap back on the bench with the others.

‘Would you like to see the house?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I didn’t want to either. But your dad …’ She trails off, but I know what she’s saying. Dad likes things being open. Up-front. Mum and I aren’t quite there yet.

‘I’d better go.’

She nods, but doesn’t look at me so I can’t tell what she’s feeling. ‘Okay. Have fun.’

In my room, I grab whatever clothes are on my bedroom floor, dirty or not. Bridge and Ellie won’t care. They’re used to me wearing clothes long after they should have been washed.

Mum is waiting when I walk out. She’s holding something up in the air.

‘Before you go,’ she says, waving the wishbone at me.

I wedge my little finger in, squashing it against hers. We’re face to face, sort of, except she’s about a head taller.

‘Ready?’

‘Yep.’

We both pull fast and the bone snaps, the sound small and sharp, like a twig cracking underfoot.

‘You win, Mum,’ I say, looking at the stubby bone bit in my hand.

‘Okay, I admit it. It was rigged. I sabotaged your end!’ she says, smiling at me playfully. She closes her eyes, making a silent wish.

I study Mum’s face, trying to find the darkness. There are more lines around her mouth, and a sprinkle of grey hairs across the front of her fringe, but there’s no sign of the tears that stained her cheeks for all those months.

I know she’s willing me into a light moment, and I’m trying. But the fire didn’t just consume our house; it took every smile and every joke with it. It’s going to take more than a broken wishbone to change that.

Mum’s eyes snap open. ‘Can’t tell you what I wished for or it won’t come true,’ she says lightly.

‘Do you actually believe wishes come true?’

She tosses her piece of bone on the bench. ‘Do you, Clem?’

I hate when parents flip your question so they don’t have to answer it. ‘Not really.’