‘Jesse is here. Was here. Is here.’ If I say I’m alone, she’ll come, and she can’t come—this is her weekend away.

‘Jesse! Who’s Jesse?’

‘Mum. Calm down. Jesse. My housemate.’

‘Is anyone else with you?’ Mum doesn’t trust men in emergency situations.

‘No.’

‘What hospital are you at? And what did the doctors say exactly?’

I tell her as much information as I can.

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Mum, no. You’re in the middle of a weekend away that you’ve been looking forward to all year. You have a full day of massages booked tomorrow. There’s no point driving up tonight. I’ll be home and safely in bed asleep before you even get here. Everything is fine. I will give you constant text updates. The cyst has burst, it’s gone, there’s no internal bleeding, all I have to do now is rest for a few days.’

I take a moment to appreciate how calm and mature and adult I sound.

I’m trying to be brave, and my rational brain knows everything I am saying is right, but my irrational brain, the part of my brain that reverts to being five years old, the part of my brain that is lonely and scared and homesick, that part wants Mum to come. That part wants her to drive at full speed up the highway straight to the hospital, screeching through yellow lights, taking corners too tightly, parking in a spot reserved for doctors, not caring about anything but me, me, me. I want her to sit in the chair next to my bed and watch me sleep, staying awake all night, and then I want her to hold my hand and cradle my head the whole time, stroke my hair like when I was little. I thought I was homesick before this, but now I am mum-sick. I need her so badly. I want to smack away anyone who is not her.

There’s no way I can do this a second longer without her.

‘Okay, well call me as soon as they tell you anything else. Anything else, okay? My phone is on. And call Lauren. She can drive up.’