She reached clumsily for her glass. She was looking down and gasping strangely. Some of this was familiar. Some of it was new.

‘Mum, what is it? Are you alright?’ I moved towards her.

‘Don’t touch me!’ Mum turned away from me and lifted her glass to her mouth. Her hands were shaking. Mine were too. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I stood still, hoping something might change. Maybe we could just say she was sick. Her breathing began to slow. Maybe this could be saved.

‘Mum, you don’t seem well.’

But her voice came out thin and vicious. ‘Sneaking,’ she said. ‘You’ve both been sneaking around. Like what? Like you thought I was crazy? Like I was going to disapprove? Like I was someone to be scared of?’

‘No, Mum, I just –’

‘You two have been talking about me together. Discussing what a terrible mother I am.’

‘Mrs Krause, Cathy, no –’

‘You’re hilarious, both of you. You don’t even know what disapproval looks like. You want to see what it’s like? What it’s really like?’

‘Mum –’

‘Nassim, can you please leave?’ Mum said, levelling a stare at him.

There was silence. A test. This was a test. Of what, I had no idea.

‘Well of course I can, Cathy. You’re clearly not feeling well,’ said Nassim. ‘This wasn’t a good time.’

But Mum pointed her finger at him. ‘I’m fine. I just want you to leave. Quickly! And I don’t want you in my house again.’

‘Mum! What are you talking about?’

And then she snapped. She threw her persona off like a cloak. ‘Leave!’ she shrieked. And then she threw her glass on the bench in front of Nassim and it shattered, spraying wine and glass all over him. He had raised his arm up to protect his face, and his bare forearm had a small piece of glass embedded in it. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’ she screamed.

I was going to vomit. This was the worst thing I had ever seen, had ever felt. ‘Mum! Please stop! Mum!’

The bright white cupboard doors and stainless-steel fridge were decorated with spatters of red, like the scene of an accident, or a crime. Mum looked from the red-spattered benchtop to the blood beading on Nassim’s arm as he picked the glass shard from his skin, and she put her hand to her own face in horror, and then she ran. She ran up the stairs then the door to her room slammed shut, and moments later I heard her sobbing.

I crouched down on the floor and with shaking fingers began picking up the violent jigsaw of broken glass. Nassim crouched next to me. ‘Why don’t you leave that,’ he said, taking my shaking hands in his own. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘It’s not usually like that,’ I said, but my voice was cracked. ‘I can usually handle her. Usually she just needs putting to bed or something . . .’

‘Come on,’ he said, drawing my hand.