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January 17th

Pleased with the sales I’ve made this month, Travel Solutions gives me a New Year bonus. I stare for a long time at a new set of numbers: enough money for a flight. Dad could water my plants. I could bring Mum’s pills. This time, I could do things my way.

January 18th

I peer under the old bakery shed for Sal, but she’s disappeared again. The cat biscuits I left last time are gone, but it might be some other cheeky beggar taking them. A rat, probably.

At the laurel hedge in the park, I discover scuff marks and fur in the slushy mud, but still no Sal. At dusk, I wait. With my binoculars, I can see all the way to the overgrown vegetation by the stream. And there, in the last glimmers of daylight, I see her. She’s not alone. Tight to her fur is a much bigger, broaderskulled fox, not her usual mate. I almost smile for Sal: an alpha male! She’s done well.

‘He’ll get you in trouble,’ I whisper. ‘Be careful.’

Her ears twitch at the sound of my voice, but she doesn’t turn. She might come back to the shed to have her cubs in spring, but I know she doesn’t need me now. As I move away, tears cling to my cheeks like ice.

January 19th

Three and a half weeks.

I take some of the plants from my flat, the hardiest ones, find a spot near the shelter of the laurel hedge and dig them in, my best compost on top. I hope Sal smells me here, lingering in her world, and leaves her scent against mine.

You told me that plants sometimes lie dormant for years, waiting patiently for as long as it takes to grow. As I dig the roots in deep, I too feel like a seed underground, waiting for light, for rain. I sit back on my heels, surveying my work as the snow melts. There is the smallest shred of hope inside me.

January 20th

I often sell a particular small Greek island to students, a paradise where they can help orphaned turtles, those forgotten in the older turtles’ rush back to the sea to catch the currents. The students walk along the sand and pick up the stragglers, place them in buckets, which they then empty into the water. The hatchlings swim to find their parents again.

But Kefonias is hard to get to: first the flight to Athens, then the bus to the port, then a ferry to a first island, followed by a connection on a smaller boat. Finally, a taxi or a long walk to the volunteer centre. It’s more difficult to get there than to you. Internet and reception are not always reliable, I warn the students.Perfect,they say: their mums can’t visit.

I have always been a sucker for creatures left behind, orphans and strays, and Mum knows it. I need space: I’ll tell her I need hot, white sunshine and time alone.