Tonight she sat in this room, taking her usual place at one head of the table, her husband at the other, looking at the faces around her.

Her family.

She found herself wondering what they actually thought of her, once the obligations of blood and marriage were stripped away.

Whether they actually liked her.

And did she like them?

These were the kinds of thoughts that had been twisting around her brain since she had opened that envelope. A Pandora’s box of paranoia and anxiety.

She tracked a green bean through the gravy on her plate and looked at each of them in turn, their heads bowed to their plates, their mouths chewing silently. These were the people who should know her best. Her daughter, her stepchildren, her husband. But of course they only knew what she had chosen to let them see.

And Helen was not a huge fan of the truth.

She sipped at a glass of water, cold against her teeth.

Do we ever really know what people think of us, she wondered? Do we want to? Not the platitudes of you’re so lovely after they’ve opened your thoughtful gift or your hair looks amazing as you arrive at the party, the words said loud enough to be heard by those in close proximity and carrying enough weight to make the person vocalising them feel self-righteously proud of themselves in that moment, while on the inside they are judging you, hating you.

What about what they actually think of you when they spy you walk past the coffee shop window as they sip on a skinny latte, their eyes narrowed as they track your footsteps, inwardly smirking when you trip over that loose paving stone? Or when you bump into them in the supermarket and their eyes dip towards your trolley, taking in the organic vegetables, thick-cut fillet steaks and bottle of Tanqueray that they wish they could afford? When they say you look amazing in those jeans while running their eyes over the roll of fat bulging over your waistband, inwardly salivating at any visible sign of your weaknesses?

It’s all based on their perception of your reality. Assumptions about your level of happiness, self-image, financial standing. But they don’t let you see that. They just quietly judge, seething inside while smiling at you with tight lips. And you do your best to keep up appearances and play to your audience.

But being thin, pretty or rich won’t make you happy – and the only friend you can really count on is yourself. In Helen’s experience anyway.

She pushed the food around her plate half-heartedly, wondering what her family would say if they were allowed to be honest about her, what things they were quietly seething over as they sat around the table, pretending to play happy families.

“Helen, could you pass the gravy jug please?” Hugh said into the silence.