I only turn to go when my shoulder begins to ache from the weight of my school bag. Only then do I notice I am not alone. Further along the coastal path stands a solitary figure, face pointed to the sea, hands rooted at their sides, shoulders slumped. It is a girl with a cloud of tight, ink-black curls pulled into a low ponytail.

She turns slowly to face me, then stoops to pick up the bag at her feet. She doesn’t look back as she walks away.

I lumber up to the house. At the far end of the garden, our caretaker, Arthur, is cutting the grass, releasing the smell of late summer into the air. I look up at the house and see the housekeeper in the kitchen prepping dinner and one of the cleaners at the back door, shaking out the doormat. And on the third floor, my mother stands in the window, staring down at me. She doesn’t raise her hand in greeting or move to come and meet me.

I say hello to Teresa, the cleaner, and step past her into the kitchen. Martha, the housekeeper, is filling the kettle at the sink.

“Good day, Helen? Nice to be back at school?” she asks me with a warm smile.

“Yeah, it was ok, thanks,” I reply and shrug.

“Can I get you something to eat? I’ve baked oat and chocolate chip cookies.”

“No, thanks, I had a big lunch.”

I dump my schoolbag in my bedroom and pause at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the next floor, tilting my head at the audible sounds of sniffing.

Sighing, I climb the stairs. Mother is still in the window, staring out at the sea in a haze of cigarette fug, a tissue clamped in her fist.

“Hi, Mother,” I say quietly from the doorway.

She sniffs in response.

“Are you ok?” I almost don’t want to ask. I step further into the room.

There have been a few episodes in the last few weeks, her moods becoming more intolerable and harder to anticipate. Sometimes she is flung on the bed, her face pressed into the pillows, moaning; other times she is pacing across the carpet, wringing her hands. I suspect she has been relying too much on her little daily doses of pharmaceutical happiness lately.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

At that, she spins around and throws herself on the bed, pulling her legs up as she sighs. “He’s having an affair, Helen. I know he is!”

“Mother, we’ve talked about this before. I’m sure he’s not. You have no evidence of that.”

“I can feel it!” She buries her face in the pillow and heaves a shuddering sigh.

There was a very heated discussion last weekend when she accused him once again. I could hear the finger-pointing through the walls. This is quite normal though. I’ve never known anything different.