He stops when they reach a line of cubicles: groaning and shouting are coming from behind a curtain. Thankfully he goes to a cubicle further down the line and Margot takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

The first thing that strikes Margot about the woman – woman, not girl: she had pictured Flora as a sixteen-year-old – is how tall and thin she is. Margot glances at the doctor for reassurance but he gives her a look that says, ‘Go on.’

This woman, this creature in the bed, looks nothing like her beautiful little girl and Margot has to suppress a sob. She has an oxygen mask over her face and, although she has blankets and sheets up to her waist, Margot can see she’s wearing an ugly hospital gown.

Oh, Flora, what have you done to yourself? How could her clever, naïve daughter end up like this?

‘Flora?’ she whispers, moving closer to the bed. She looks so old, this girl – woman. Her once glossy dark hair is now dull and matted, hanging in strands over her shoulders, her skin no longer young and fresh but sunken and lined. Margot’s eyes fill with tears as she runs her fingertip over the chickenpox scar just in front of her daughter’s left ear. It’s her baby. She can hardly believe it, but it’s true. She gently brushes the hair away from Flora’s forehead. It’s been a lifetime, yet the curve of her forehead is so familiar that Margot’s heart feels like it might burst with love, fear and sadness for all the lost years. She takes her elder daughter’s pale hand in hers and holds it to her face. She wants never to let it go.

The doctor touches her upper arm gently and says he’ll be back in five minutes. Margot hardly notices him leave.

And then, much to her delight, Flora opens her eyes, those beautiful green eyes, so like Heather’s, and she squeezes Margot’s hand. ‘Mum?’ she croaks.

‘Oh, my baby. It’s me. It’s Mum. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.’

A tear slides from the corner of Flora’s eye and seeps onto the pillow. She turns her head slowly towards Margot. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Her voice is raspy, as though she’s been smoking twenty cigarettes a day.

‘You don’t have to be sorry, my darling,’ Margot says, a weight crushing her chest. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

‘I’ve missed you too … Please … Heather … Is she alive?’

‘She’s alive and well. Don’t worry about Heather.’ How did she know? She must have read about it in the newspapers. Is that why she’s come back? Because of Heather?