I’m suddenly angry he’s suggesting it’s somehow our fault. What did he think was going to happen when we rocked up at the care home off our faces at two in the morning? But as quickly as it comes, the anger goes, replaced by a chest-gripping fear they’ll stop us seeing him.

‘How should I know?’ Aoife replies. ‘They haven’t bothered us for years, so I haven’t a clue why they’re bothered now.’

I think of my social worker – Harriet – how nice she is and how much I like our sessions together. She reminds me this is all just temporary, that even though it feels like no one loves me, or I’ll always be the one with hand-me-down clothes and the ‘special ticket’ for school lunches, I can be more than this.

And then I remember. When I was with Harriet last week she’d mentioned my dress, one Alf had bought me.

‘It’s very pretty,’ she’d smiled.

I’d smoothed over the soft material. ‘It is, isn’t it.’

‘Where did you get it?’

I didn’t know which shop, so I said, ‘It was a present.’

‘How lovely.’ Another smile. ‘Who from?’

I’d panicked. ‘My mum. She left it for me to make up for missing me so much.’ The lie hurt because I’d wanted it to be true. I fiddled with the dress, avoiding Harriet’s stare, knowing she knew it wasn’t true. I hated my mum at that minute, hated her for making me sit in the office where a woman judged me for my lies, and pitied me.

‘Mary,’ Harriet eventually said, ‘workers at the home have said you and Aoife have been getting a lot of nice clothes recently.’

I stayed silent.

‘They are worried about you both.’

Anger built. No one was worried about us, that was a lie, they barely checked we got home at night. They were jealous of the clothes, that was all. Jealous because the money they got to be zookeepers wasn’t enough to get them nice things like me and Aoife had.

Harriet had sighed. ‘OK then, Mary. Let’s meet again next week. But please take care of yourself.’

I’d bolted from the room. I should have gone and told Aoife they were suspicious, but my anger got in the way. I ran home, consumed with hatred for my mum, dad, the care-home staff, but mostly for myself for being so worthless that all I deserved was pity from a woman paid to look after me.

So, by the time I got back to our room, I’d forgotten about the clothes and what Harriet had said. I only remember when Alf talks about the social workers, and watching Alf’s anger, I’m not about to mention it now.