Polly came with me. She was scared by Granny and her mouth open. Grampa isnt crying he just sits beside Granny and says sorry my darling sorry my darling. Because it is his fault. Daddy said no it wasnt and Uncle David said it was because Grampa didnt notice all the pills Granny was eating. The doctor said she ate at least thirty. Daddy told him not to say that and David started shouting at him and I started crying because I miss my mummy. I want my mummy back home with me. I want everything how it was before with Mummy home and Granny not dead. Josh is letting me sleep in his room tonight.

P.S. Daddy just told Josh and me we must treasure our last memories of Granny. Mine were on Monday when I rang to say happy birthday to her and she forgot I was on the phone with her and started having a conversation with Grampa. And when she carried me around with her while she made a cup of tea and ate a biscuit and then went to the toilet and peed like the pony in Dartmoor outside our tent. I shall treasure my memories.

Emma looked up from the book and out of the window. Then she looked down at the broken bird of a woman lying on the bed, her twig-thin battled arm resting on the covers, the lifeless pink palm on the sheet unfurled to the world. Emma reached out for that hand and took the cool fingers in her own and squeezed them tightly. Connie blinked slowly, heavily. Emma saw it as a glint of hope. Hope for what? How was Connie going to put the pieces of her life back together again? She had no one. That was the truth of it. Mental illness was the greatest isolator of all; it terrified people, it had made a monster of her. And how was anyone meant to survive such isolation?

Emma wanted to go. ‘I’m going to leave you to rest now,’ she said, giving her hand another squeeze. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

She thought she felt a pull from Connie’s hand and it was enough to make her pause. ‘I’ll stay a little longer, if you want.’