Mum had Evie over at her house for a couple of hours on Friday morning, so I took the opportunity to finish my job application.

By lunchtime I’d emailed it off, together with the required covering letter.

I made a cheese sandwich and ate it while I watched the news headlines. I heard the letterbox snap, mail falling on the mat. After I’d eaten my lunch I popped into the hall and scooped up the small pile of post, taking it through to the living room. The usual combination of glossy pizza delivery and double-glazing leaflets nestled amongst utility letters addressed to ‘The New Tenant/Owner’.

I spotted a thicker letter than the other items, handwritten. My curiosity was piqued right away. I tore open the pretty lilac envelope to find a ‘New Home’ card and a letter from my old friend Tara Bowen, whose husband, Rob, had died instantly in the accident with Andrew.

I sat down on the couch and read the letter. It was printed and only took up half an A4 sheet, so it didn’t take me very long, but when I’d finished it, my eyes were prickling.

Predictably, Tara was only interested in how Evie and I were doing and how we shouldn’t lose contact as friends. She’d always been a very selfless person, doing lots of voluntary work for animal charities on her weekends, even though she’d worked full-time as a veterinary nurse before her life was steamrollered flat, in the same way ours had been.

When I got to the last line of the letter, Tara referred to herself only once to tell me she had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Never one to dramatize her problems, she said it like it was nothing: ‘Oh, and I now have a positive diagnosis for MS. At least I know now what’s been causing my insomnia.’

I folded up the letter and slid it back into the envelope, and then I sat, watching tiny rainbow spheres dancing on the wall, created by the sunlight filtering through the beautiful crystal vase that Andrew had given me as a gift before he died.

It was easy to get caught up in your own problems, focusing on what was lacking rather than counting your blessings. Reading the last line of Tara’s letter put things into sharp perspective. Life had lambasted her yet again, but was she complaining? No.

Thanks to Tara, I felt a sharp resolve. It was time I got my act together and sorted out my life.

At that very moment, in the kitchen, I heard my laptop ping with an incoming email.

Unbelievably, it was from Gregory’s Property Services, inviting me to interview at 3 p.m. on Monday afternoon.

I swallowed hard, trying to relieve the dryness in my mouth and throat. Although my stomach was fluttering at the thought of my plans coming together, Evie started her new school on Monday. I’d wanted to take her and pick her up on her first day at least.

My heart rate instantly doubled. At least it felt that way.

Desperate to share my news, I picked up my phone and fired a text off to Mum.

It was brilliant and completely unexpected; they must have been really impressed with my application to get back within the hour.

But then I suppose it was easy enough to appear competent on paper. What if I flunked the interview? What if they thought I was too experienced, or too old for the role of assistant?

I glanced at my phone but Mum hadn’t yet replied to my message.

Despite feeling relieved I’d actually managed to get a shot at securing a job, the whole of my upper body felt tight and tense, every muscle as taut as an overstrung cello.

A few weeks ago, I’d downloaded a relaxation app on my phone that gave breathing exercises and even played mindful music while you did them. I opened it up and sat for a few minutes, trying to keep focused on the narrator’s voice. The entire time, the little brown bottle called to me from the bathroom cabinet but I forced myself to ignore it.

When I’d completed the first stage of the relaxation, I felt even more stressed than when I’d started.

I grabbed my keys and left the house before the pull to go upstairs grew too strong.

I didn’t trust myself anywhere near those tablets.

---

‘I think you’re rushing into things with this new job.’ Mum jumped straight in, as soon as I walked into her kitchen. My heart sagged in my chest; I didn’t feel up to an argument. ‘Your priority should be to get the house comfortable and properly organised and to get Evie settled into school.’

‘I need extra cash to get the house looking right,’ I tried to reason with her. ‘And it’s only part-time hours, I’ll still be able to take Evie to school every morning.’

‘I don’t want to go to a crèche, Mummy,’ Evie whined, wrapping her little arms around my neck. ‘Nanny said I shouldn’t have to.’

‘What have you been telling her?’ I quickly bit down on my tongue but the unspoken words burned in my mouth like acid.

‘I haven’t been telling her anything,’ Mum replied calmly. ‘I just said that Mummy might have to go to work and if so—’

‘You should have let me tell her in my own time.’ I tried to stop, but in the end I just had to spit the words out. ‘I am her mother.’

‘Oh yes, we know that, don’t we?’ Mum said shortly. ‘We know that you’re her mother.’

I heard the subtext as clearly as if she’d shouted the words at me. You’re her ineffective, unreliable mother who can’t function without my help.

It was yet another reason I had to get my life back on track.

I bit down my retort and looked away from her challenging stare. I couldn’t afford for Mum to retreat into one of her silent protests. I’d known them to last for days before.

And as much as it stuck in my craw, I needed her.