Steven stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Do you want to know your problem, Martha?”

“No.” She didn’t need help identifying her problems. She could list them easily, thanks to the people around her who never let her forget her shortcomings.

“You expect too much. People are human. We’re not all bloody perfect.”

She fumbled in her bag for her keys.

“Martha, are you even listening?”

“I’ve done all the listening I intend to do. Bye, Steven. Don’t call me.” Proud of her restraint, she slammed the front door and heard her mother call from the kitchen.

“Was that Steven? Invite him in. He could take a look at the pipe in the kitchen. We have a leak.”

Only her mother could put the state of the plumbing above her daughter’s happiness.

“Ask Dad to do it.”

There were many downsides of living with her parents at the age of twenty-four, but being trapped with people who didn’t understand you was the biggest one. Lack of privacy came a close second. There was no space to lick your wounds, or mope with your head under a pillow. No chance of seeking emotional comfort from the TV and a box of chocolates because someone would change the channel and eat half of whatever you were about to put in your mouth.

And there was no way of avoiding an inquisition.

“Your dad is out.” Her mother emerged from the kitchen, a cleaning cloth in her hand and a frown on her face. “And Steven is a plumber. He knows his way around a pipe.”

But very little else.

The last thing she wanted was a conversation with her mother, but their house was small and what she wanted didn’t figure much in anyone’s plans. “He’s gone.”

Her mother flicked her cloth over the mirror. “You’ve been very unforgiving. You should at least talk to him.”

“I’ve said all there is to say.”

“Oh Martha.” Her mother gave her a look of weary despair.

“What?” She did not need this. “What now?”

“He’s nice enough and handy around the house. You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss someone in a steady job.”

“Settling for someone because they know how to fix a toilet is a pretty low bar. I’m hoping for more than that.”

“You are too fussy—that’s your problem. Real life isn’t like it is in those books you read, you know. I will never understand you, Martha.”

That went both ways.

When she was ten she’d actually asked her parents if she was adopted because she saw nothing of herself in either of them. She’d secretly dreamed of a lovely woman knocking on the door one day to claim her. But it had never happened.

Each time her mother criticized her it chipped another piece from Martha until she felt less and less like herself.

“It’s over.”