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He keeps his voice low. ‘Yeah. Apparently it was a transient ischaemic attack – a ministroke. It has similar symptoms to a regular stroke, which is why the care home called an ambulance straight away. The doctor says the effects usually aren’t as major, but they need to monitor her for a few days. They did an MRI today but no results yet.’ He looks at Mum. ‘She seems okay. She’s eating. Her memory doesn’t appear any worse. Says she has some aches and pains, but that’s about it.’

‘I can hear you,’ Mum says, opening one eyelid.

Adam laughs. ‘I know you can, Mum. I’m just giving Holly an update.’

‘So if everything is okay after a couple of days, she can be discharged?’ I ask.

He nods. ‘Yep, as long as the MRI is okay.’

I fall back against the chair with a relieved sigh.

‘Sorry you rushed back,’ Adam says. ‘I had no idea what was going on when the care home called me.’

‘It’s fine.’ I try not to let the heartache of what happened show. ‘I didn’t want to be so far away with Mum in hospital.’ Keen to change tack, I pick up a novel on the bed table, flipping it over to read the back cover blurb. ‘You bring this?’

‘Meg did.’

‘You love a British crime, Mum,’ I say.

She opens her eyes. ‘I certainly do, and now I’m forgetting things, I can watch and read the same ones over and over.’

I smile. ‘Silver linings.’

Adam stands. ‘I’ll go grab us a cup of coffee, hey?’

‘That sounds great, thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ll need some sugar in mine.’

‘I’ll get you a nice cup of strong tea, Mum,’ he says.

He leaves the room, and I open the book to where it’s been bookmarked with a scrap of paper. ‘Want me to read you some of this story, Mum?’

‘Lovely,’ she says, closing her eyes again.

Just as I begin to read, my phone pings in my bag. I reach for it expecting a text from Nat, and my heart jumps when it’s from Casey. She hasn’t contacted me since she left the flat on Saturday night. I kept my phone close all night, thinking she’d keep trying, that she’d turn up at Heathrow, that she’d fight harder for me.

With a shaky hand, I open the message.

I hope you’re home safely and your mum is okay. Haven’t stopped thinking about you.

I read the message again, aloud this time, and say, ‘What do you think about that, Mum?’

Mum’s eyes twitch under the thin skin of her lids, already asleep.

My finger hovers over the screen, itching to reply, but I stop myself. My head is foggy with jetlag; I’m not of sound mind. I switch off my phone, return to the book and focus on the reason I came home.

Three days later, I’m back at the hospital.

Apart from a solid twelve-hour sleep on the night of my return, the time has been filled with hospital visits, sorting out what to do with Mum’s house now that the tenants have left, and ferrying my nephews to and from school. Tom has messaged, way too enthusiastic about me being back in the country. Not that I told him I was home. Presumably he found out through Nat’s husband.

The jetlag has finally lifted, but my heartache hasn’t. If anything, it’s worse. As I exit the lift on Mum’s ward, I stare at the second message Casey has sent me since I’ve been home and a confusing mix of longing, hurt and anger lodges in my chest.

I know you don’t want to hear from me and you have more important things going on, but I just want you to know you’re on my mind and I hope your mum is doing okay.

Part of me, a very large part, wants to call her, to tell her that I miss her, and that I’m desperate for her support. But then I see Eva perched on that bar stool with rage in her eyes, the word ‘fiancée’ echoing in my ears, Casey’s guilt-ridden face, and my heart hardens. As I walk into Mum’s room, I type out a perfunctory message.

Home okay. Mum’s still in hospital. Thanks for checking.

What else is there to say?