The next morning, Clare opened Ged’s bedroom door and stood gawping. It was hard to make out in the winter morning gloom but it looked like there was someone else in her son’s bed with him, she wasn’t sure. She edged further inside the room and took a closer look. Surprise hit her like a truck, she barely managed to get back out onto the landing. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. She made it to her bedroom, where she sank to the floor. It all made sense now; the moods, the secretiveness, the aggression. Why had she not seen what was right in front of her eyes? Maybe he’d been trying in his own way to tell her, but she never had the time to listen to him – she was always so busy. She was a bad mother, she’d failed him. Clare pulled her phone out of her cardigan pocket and started typing into the Google search box. ‘What to do if your son is gay’.

Was this down to her? Had she made him feel like he couldn’t tell her? He’d had to find love wherever he could because, let’s face it, she worked long hours and his father wasn’t around. Who did he have to show him affection? Who did he have to comfort him? Clare had a single tear running down the side of her cheek, a big, fat one. Could she have loved her son more, showed she cared more? Yes, she could have. A gay son didn’t bother her but his dad would disown him, she bet. He was always slagging off anyone who dared do anything a little bit different, couldn’t get his head around how two blokes could love each other, he said. Sausage jockeys he called them. Clare read through the pages on her phone – she didn’t know any gay men. Had no one to ask for advice. How should she act towards him now? She sat staring into space, thinking, stressed. Maybe she could phone a helpline to discuss this with them.