Claire was crying now, though it didn’t stop her from talking. Her accusations became confused: that Joan had never paid attention to her, that Henry just let Joan do everything her way, that they had never taught Claire how to look after herself, that they had allowed her to see one of her teachers when she was still at school. It was amazing to Joan that she could say this with the boyfriend sitting right beside her. But Mark didn’t blink. He said, ‘Claire and I have ended up together because that’s how her sexuality was formed. She engaged with an older man at a very formative point in her life.’

Her sexuality! Joan nearly laughed. I cleaned up your shit, she wanted to tell her. I cleaned up your shit and your piss and your vomit, I combed the nits out of your hair, I put calamine lotion on your chickenpox blisters, and did I mention the shit? Did I mention the times you shit the bed even though you were basically too old to do something like that, and I had to come in and gather the sheets up around it, this hot stinking little parcel, gather it up and flip it into the toilet, soak the sheets in bleach, put the washer on at three in the morning? How many other people’s bodily fluids have you had to deal with in your life? None. Your cat’s, maybe. You scoop hard matted cat shit out of a litter box with a plastic spade and you think you understand what it is to be a caregiver.

‘We’re not here to lay blame,’ Mark said. ‘We’re just letting you know. Claire needs to take responsibility for her own emotional wellbeing now. She needs to move on.’

His interventions were smugly authoritative; he seemed to have access to some story about their family that Joan didn’t have, that wasn’t true. What had Claire told him? Joan wanted to shake her, make her admit she’d lied, but she just said, ‘Taking responsibility for yourself sounds like a good idea.’

‘You should do the same,’ Mark said.

Oh, this was too much. This man – who was this man? Why did Claire allow him to speak to her mother like that? Was he an abuser? She started to wonder. Was Claire here under some sort of duress? She wouldn’t have assumed that just because of his age, but his behaviour was frightening; it made her frightened for her child.

‘Claire,’ she said, ‘does he talk this way to you?’

‘He’s sticking up for me. He loves me. This is what it looks like.’

Henry, goaded, said, ‘Your Mum’s done her best.’

‘And what’ve you done?’ asked Mark.