This Monday had begun in the way they usually did. Catherine had said goodbye to Edward, who was wearing a shirt she had ironed and carrying a leather satchel the right side of stylish. She watched him walk down the narrow lane towards the bus stop that would take him to the station. At the bend in the road, before he disappeared behind the conifers, he would always stop and wave. He had done this for the last twelve years, since Honor was born. But on this particular Monday morning he did not break his stride, but walked on, head bowed into the knifing wind.

Catherine lingered on the doorstep in case he changed his mind, but after a couple of minutes, she realized he wasn’t coming back. The sting of it surprised her. Even so, she boiled milk for porridge and pasted on a smile for her daughter, whose hair was still damp from the shower, resisting the urge to nag her to dry it before she walked the short distance to school in the winter chill.

Honor was quiet that Monday morning, mauve shadows beneath her eyes, rolling blueberries around her spoon but not eating them. Her mobile was on the table and the girl checked it obsessively. Once upon a time, she would have devoured her breakfast, chattering non-stop about the day ahead. Not now. She was changing, hardening, on the cusp of adolescence.

‘Looking forward to the Christmas holidays?’ Catherine smeared redcurrant jam on a croissant, eyes firmly on her plate. Honor did not enjoy scrutiny. It made her clam up.

She sensed rather than saw her daughter’s shrug.

‘I suppose so.’ The ghost of a grin, a flash of her old self. ‘No homework.’

Honor put down her spoon, leaned against the back of her chair and yawned for what felt like a long time. Catherine risked a glance. Her daughter had covered her mouth, but through the gaps between her fingers, her teeth were full of metal. It gave her the appearance of a snarling animal.

‘Tired, love?’ This was a sensitive subject, but the words were out of Catherine’s mouth before she could bite them back.

Another shrug, and a flick of her hair, but when Honor’s eyes met her mother’s, Catherine saw shame in them. ‘Did it happen again?’

‘’Fraid so, but I’m sure you’ll grow out of it soon.’ A concerted attempt at jollity. ‘We can make another appointment with the doc—’

In a burst of petulance, Honor shoved her hands against the edge of the table, cutting short her mother. Catherine’s coffee cup wobbled, but she buttoned down the urge to shout. Her daughter didn’t mean it. At twelve, embarrassment was a powerful driver of behaviour. As God was her witness, Catherine knew all about that.