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I stood on the footpath and tried to think of this house as home, but couldn’t.

This bungalow was nothing like the home I’d known all my life, but after Mum’s stroke my parents realised that they would need to move to something more practical.

Maybe if Dad was here, it would feel different.

It was a sorry fact that until he’d died, I hadn’t set foot inside their new home.

There hadn’t been time, I’d told myself, but I’d lied and made myself believe it.

They’d moved in three months ago. Paul and I had been down the month before that to help with getting rid of a lifetime of collecting.

Paul had been brilliant with Mum while I weeded through everything with Dad.

We’d laughed and we’d cried as we carted stuff to the charity shops and to the auction house to sell.

Mum’s mood had been so variable that long weekend.

Paul jollied her along. With me she was sharp one moment and loving the next.

I put it down to the stress of selling the house she loved and leaving her garden.

I should have come back down to see their new house after they moved in, and that truth was hard to swallow especially when I couldn’t fix it.

If I was honest, I hated the thought of coming to somewhere that wasn’t home, but that was a terrible excuse.

Part of me had been mourning the old house.

I always escaped to that house in my dreams when I was stressed.

It had been such a haven growing up. As a child, I’d practised walking down the curved stairs pretending I was a bride, and I’d imagined my own children playing in the huge garden.

But a wedding wasn’t going to happen, because Paul didn’t believe marriage was necessary.

So it didn’t matter that the old Victorian pile was being torn down and five new executive homes were going to be built on the plot.

Could you grieve for a house? I’d thought so until I’d learned what grief really meant.

My gut twisted at the reality that I saw daily in my mother’s eyes.

Meg Pascoe, who helped Mum during the day, waved and left the front door ajar for me. When she reached me on the path, she tapped my arm in a motherly fashion. ‘It’s been an OK day.’

What did that mean? Mum’s recovery from her stroke had been steady, but she needed help, which I had witnessed since Dad died.

‘She dressed, ate lunch and spoke to the gardener.’ Meg pulled her keys out of her bag.

‘The post?’ There were hundreds of letters of condolence from all over the art world, which I hoped would help comfort her. Replying could be a problem as Mum was left-handed and that hand still hung limply at her side. Maybe we could tackle them together in the evenings.

‘Hasn’t touched it, dear.’ Meg sighed and went on her way.

From the front hall I could hear Mum chatting to someone. Her voice sounded too bright, too forced. It was normal to be down when you’d lost the love of your life. She didn’t have to appear fine when both she and I knew she wasn’t. Dad would know how to help, and that was the worst part.

In the hallway, I paused. The paintings were familiar and I saw my father in each of them.

The washed tones of a Maddie Hollis watercolour and the bold shapes of a Peter Lanyon.

These had been purchased long before their value had been recognised.

He hadn’t collected them for their potential gain.

No, he’d wanted them for their beauty and the moments they captured, reminding him of his favourite places with my mother.

I stopped in front of the painting of Frenchman’s Creek by Jaunty Blythe.

That was where he had proposed. He’d planned it all.

It was Mum’s favourite book. Dad was romantic and strangely precise.

My mother’s laughter rang down the rugless hallway. No trip hazards allowed.

‘Oh, I’m doing fine, Paul.’

I froze. It was so kind of him to check on her. But she was telling him she was fine when I had told him the opposite this morning.

‘No, she’s . . . been great, and . . . I know how you miss her, but she shouldn’t be too long away.’ Her speech had returned, but it was slower and with the odd pause.

The truth was my mother wasn’t getting out of bed in the morning unless Meg Pascoe or I helped her. She was as far from fine as it was possible to be, and gripped by grief.

I hurried into the kitchen to see her leaning against the counter, her stick propped beside her.

‘Take care, Paul, and thank you for letting me know.’ She put the phone down and picked up the kettle with her right hand. With slow, awkward movements she poured water into a mug, then stared out the window. It broke my heart to watch the effort it took her to do simple things.

She looked over her shoulder. ‘Oh, you’re home.’ She smiled, then winced.

I grabbed the milk from the fridge to save her a few steps, then noticed there was no tea bag in the cup, so I added one to the hot water. She wasn’t sleeping well but hated the decaf ones, swearing they tasted awful. Maybe she should try a herbal tea.

I added a camomile one to another mug for me. My sleep hadn’t been great either.

‘How was today?’ I asked with as much brightness as I could muster.

She didn’t reply. I placed the mug on the kitchen table for her, and leaning heavily on her cane, she made her way to the chair. I so wanted to help her but didn’t have a clue where to begin.

‘I went through the paperwork on Dad’s desk,’ I said to start a conversation.

She raised an eyebrow.

‘Stephen handed me an estate to value.’

‘Dear, you know you can’t do that.’ She glared at the tea.

I drew a breath. It was dire when even your own mother didn’t believe in you.

But she had every reason to say that after what had happened.

Still, she had never been so direct or so pointed.

This was new. Was it the stroke that had changed her, or something else?

‘Well, whether I can or I can’t, it’s down to me to do it. ’

‘Silly man.’

I couldn’t argue with that, but it was clear she thought I was useless. Her words stung, and I swallowed the resentment I felt. Why was she acting this way? Was it grief? Her face gave nothing away except her exhaustion. It didn’t lie. I heard her crying in the night.

‘What did you do today?’ I tried again.

She lifted her left hand an inch and it flopped to her side. ‘What do you expect me to do?’

‘I thought you might look at the letters of condolence.’ I gave her an encouraging smile. ‘As you always said to me in the past when you wrote to someone, it might help with the grief.’

She pushed her chair back slowly, the scraping sound on the tiled floor saying far more than she would voice. Then with a heaving sigh she stood and shuffled out of the room.

I put my head in my hands, knowing I’d made things worse.

The tea in my mug looked like watered-down whisky.

Tea was not what I needed right now. A strong drink would be a better choice.

But instead of drinking either, I went to the freezer and pulled out a shepherd’s pie a neighbour had made.

Once it was in the oven, I rubbed my temples and tried to clear my head before I called Paul.

It would be good to talk things through with him.

He was so good at helping me sort my thoughts and calm my anxiety.

I tried three times, but his phone went to voicemail.

My father was dead, my mother wasn’t coping and my uncle was being passive-aggressive at best. Talking about all of this would help.

I tried one more time, but there was still no answer.

There was one other person who would understand.

Tash. Speaking to her would help, but still I hesitated.

I really needed to talk to Paul. My temples throbbed.

I picked up the tepid tea and knocked it back.

Dinner in the oven smelled delicious. Hopefully a good meal would help both my mother and me. God knows something needed to.

* * *

As I cleared the dishes, I heard the television in the other room. We’d eaten dinner in silence. Exhaustion had filled the space between us, or at least that was what I was putting it down to. From the theme music I heard, I knew Mum was watching reruns of Midsomer Murders .

My phone rang.

‘Hi, baby,’ I said with as much energy as I could muster.

‘Sorry I missed your calls earlier.’ He sounded contrite.

‘That’s OK,’ I replied.

‘I was out with Charles and Susie. We missed you.’ He paused. ‘But they understood why you couldn’t make the party. They send their condolences.’

‘That’s so kind.’ It had totally escaped my mind that tonight was the launch party for Susie’s latest book on the Tudors. I flicked the kettle on, then turned it off. I didn’t want more tea. ‘How was the rest of your day?’

‘Worked through a PhD student’s thesis. Dire stuff.’ He huffed.

‘Sorry about that, but I’m sure with your guidance it will come up to scratch.’ I knew how hard he was to please. My unsubmitted master’s thesis was in a box in the room I was sleeping in.

‘Not so sure.’ He coughed.

‘Anything else?’ I paced the kitchen, longing to chat about my day.

‘No, simply exhausted.’

‘You had a chat with Mum.’

‘Did she tell you I rang?’ he asked. ‘I called to check in on her. I know this is hard for both of you.’

It was a thoughtful gesture. He was good like that.

‘She was on the phone to you when I came home.’

‘That’s not your home.’

‘You know what I mean.’ Only the paintings, the books and a few antiques were familiar, home-like.

‘Your home is here with me.’