The Mother's Mistake

by Ruth Heald

Genres: Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

She runs past the tinkling of children’s laughter that fills the park. Heart hammering, feet stinging, she reaches the riverbank, her breath catching in her throat. And then she sees…

Three years later. Claire has everything she’s always wanted. A new-born baby. A doting husband by her side. A picturesque home in the countryside. But behind closed doors, Claire’s life is falling apart. Her husband is barely ever home, she’s struggling to bond with her baby girl, and she swears that she is being watched in the remote, lonely cottage. And when a threatening note is posted through her letterbox, saying she doesn’t deserve her daughter, it’s clear that someone knows about the terrible mistake that Claire made – someone won’t let her forget it.

Three years ago, she would have known who to turn to. But now she no longer recognises those closest to her, or the person she’s become. Who can she trust?

An atmospheric, chilling and absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller about a mother’s worst nightmare. Fans of K.L. Slater, Shalini Boland and The Girl on the Train will love the twists, turns and gasp-worthy shocks of this stunning debut from Ruth Heald.

"OMG... LITERALLY BLEW MY MIND AWAY!!... Ruth's writing had me enslaved to my Kindle, tapping away at the pages." Goodreads Reviewer

"Wow, what a story… Utterly hooked from page one, so glad it was a weekend and I could binge read!... An absolute must-read!! 5 huge stars from me." Goodreads Reviewer

"I honestly don't know where to begin with this review, the book blew me away that much. In a word – WOW!... Not many books leave me with such an impression... In such a way that I pity the next one I open for fear it will simply fall into the shadow of this one. Not many books leave me feeling the next one could never compare. But this one did... Brilliant!" Confessions of a Bookaholic

"Wonderful... This is another of the best books I have read this year!" Goodreads Reviewer

"I loved this book!... It was one of the best thrillers I’ve read this year." Goodreads Reviewer

"Wow! What a brilliant psychological thriller! The Mother’s Mistake is thought-provoking and chilling with a suspenseful plot and amazing characters." Goodreads Reviewer

"What an amazing thriller!... Stayed up way past my bedtime to find out what was going to happen next." Goodreads Reviewer

"A must-read… Has it all: twisty, addictive, pulls you in from page one." Goodreads Reviewer

"Perfect… gripped me from start to finish… An amazing, totally unexpected twist… Wonderful." Goodreads Reviewer

Release date: June 11, 2019

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 362

Sample

The day was a painter’s dream. Vibrant colours. Bright, cloudless sky. Green, leafy trees reflected in a sparkling river. An inviting morning, brimming with expectation of the summer’s day ahead: laughter as families picnicked on the riverbanks, children screaming at the unexpected chill of the water, a line of jostling tourists, competing for the best angle to take a photo.

I felt like time should stop when I saw her. But it didn’t. The birds continued to chirp as if it were any other morning.

My breath caught in my throat.

She was tangled in the reeds. They had wrapped around her pale arm, the current pulling it insistently away from her body until the shoulder had dislocated and the arm bent backwards at the elbow, like a plastic doll manipulated by a child. The rest of her was under the water’s surface, bobbing.

Even if time had stopped it wouldn’t have been enough. To correct things, to put things right, time would have had to go backwards. Stop me, before I started the chain of events that led me there, to the riverbank, watching helplessly as the little girl was pulled from the water.

A policeman was wading across the river, the water parting for him, the drag of the current no match for his strong legs.

He lifted her out, reached into her mouth and felt around for any debris, then tipped her upside down and thumped her on the back. Too hard. A spurt of water came out of her mouth and my heart lifted to my throat.

‘Breathe,’ I urged her. ‘Breathe!’

His colleague reached out from the riverbank to take her from his arms. He handled her roughly as if she were little more than a doll. I fought to get closer, unfamiliar fingers gripping my forearm and pulling me back. But my anger quickly turned to despair. Her glassy eyes seemed to lock with mine. Her soul had already left her.

A scream scattered the birds and it was only when my knees sank to the muddy ground and my fingers dug into the soil that I realised it was coming from me.

‘No!’

But it was too late. There was nothing I could do but watch as the police officer desperately tried to revive her, performing mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions on the riverside for a good ten minutes, before he let the paramedic take over and collapsed to the ground beside her, stroking her wet hair away from her face. As the paramedic pushed down into her small body, it jumped and shuddered at the force, her chest moving with his hands, pliant and lifeless.

I’d have done anything to hear her cry, but the only wails were from the police sirens, as car after car arrived, lights flashing with anticipation.

The car’s wheels crunch against the gravel as we pull up in front of the limestone cottage. Miles of countryside behind us and we’re here. The perfect home for our little family. A shiver of excitement runs through me and I smile as I open the car door and the fresh country air engulfs me. This is the new start I’ve longed for.

Luckily for us, our daughter Olivia is abnormally calm. She’s slept the whole two hours from our flat in London. I gently unstrap her from the baby seat and lift her out, holding her up to see the cottage for the first time. She whimpers as she wakes, squinting against the bright winter sun.

Matt gets out of the car and puts his arm around me. I breathe in the cold, crisp air, feel it tingle on the back of my throat. None of the grit of London.

‘Happy?’ Matt asks, squeezing my arm.

‘Yes,’ I say, and joy wraps around me like a blanket. Already the past seems further away, a distant memory. Now is a new beginning, the start of our life together as a family. Only the future matters.

The removal van swings into the driveway, as my mother-in-law appears from the path down the side of the building, which leads to her house at the back of the cottage.

‘Claire,’ she says, giving me a brief hug before taking Olivia from my arms. She presses my baby to her chest and declares that she is the prettiest little thing she has ever seen.

I grin at Ruth. We’re lucky to have her. She’s letting us live in her mother’s cottage rent-free, so that we can save up for our own place.

Ruth looks doubtfully at the removal van. ‘You’ve got a lot of things.’

‘It’s mainly baby stuff,’ I say, taking Olivia back into my arms as we watch the men unload the cot onto the gravel.

‘We’ll have to see if it all fits.’

I laugh as I look at the cottage. It’s four times the size of our flat.

‘I’ll open up,’ Ruth says as she leads us to the front door. Weeds have taken over the garden and are starting to spread from the flowerbeds across the doorstep. I imagine Matt and me spending a day with our hands in the soil, planting seeds in the sunshine, Olivia watching from her pram.

My heart thuds as Ruth pulls out a set of keys and tries each one in turn. I can’t wait to see inside.

Olivia starts to grumble and I rub her back. She’s hungry. As soon as we get inside I’ll feed her.

One of Ruth’s keys finally fits the lock and twists uneasily.

As I step over the threshold, I cough. Damp and dust and mould. The air festers. I put my hand over Olivia’s mouth.

‘Oh,’ I say, as I take everything in.

Shoes sit on the shoe rack, coats hang expectantly, and there’s a letter on the ledge by the door, waiting to be posted. An umbrella left out long ago to dry is covered in a layer of dust. The beige stair-lift waits patiently for its owner.

Pamela, Ruth’s mother, died of a heart attack three months ago.

‘I haven’t been in for a while,’ Ruth explains, as she gathers up piles of letters into her arms from the carpet. ‘Who’d have thought there’d be so much post?’ she says to herself.

I hadn’t expected this. I’m sure Ruth said she’d clear the house for us.

I step around her and look for a place to breastfeed Olivia. A plastic mobility walker blocks the entrance to a living room. I push it aside, go in and perch on the edge of the floral sofa. I adjust my top and put Olivia to my dry, cracked nipple. She fights at first, knocking me away. I reposition her until she eventually latches on and I wince. When she suckles vigorously, I sigh with relief. Olivia and I have both struggled with breastfeeding, but I am determined to make it work. The health visitor said it will help build the bond between us.

I look around the living room. The mantelpiece is crowded with dusty ornaments and photographs. A book lies open on the coffee table. The house is untouched since Pamela left and I feel like an uninvited guest. Matt brings me a cup of tea in a floral mug, and Ruth whisks out a mat to put it on.

‘We’ll have to buy some milk,’ Matt says apologetically, but I sip the tea gratefully, taking care to hold it as far away as possible from my baby. It calms me.

‘Full of antiques, this cottage,’ Ruth says. ‘I know I can trust you both to take care of everything.’

I imagine Olivia as a toddler, zooming round the cottage, causing havoc.

‘We might need to move some things,’ I say. I’ve spent the last week looking at furniture online. I’d thought we’d finally be able to choose our own.

‘I don’t know where you’ll move things to,’ Ruth replies.

I’m about to mention her huge house at the end of the garden, but I catch the look Matt gives me and say nothing.

One of the removal men comes in, out of breath. ‘Where shall I put the boxes?’ he asks. I look round the cluttered room.

‘Upstairs?’ I suggest.

Ruth leads the man away, and finally Matt, Olivia and I are alone. I let myself relax and take in my surroundings. It won’t take long to clear the room and put up some pictures. We can make the cottage our own.

There’s a sudden crash from upstairs, and my muscles tense instinctively. I see the teacup in my hand turning over. A scream escapes my mouth as the hot liquid splashes over my jeans. The cup falls to the carpet.

Ruth shouts at the removal men upstairs as Olivia screams. Matt rushes over, and I run my hands over Olivia, praying that the tea hasn’t caught her.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Matt, tears welling up in my eyes.

I could have burned her. I could have scarred my child.

‘It’s OK,’ Matt replies, his arm round my shoulder. ‘One of the men must have dropped something. It made you jump.’

I can hear the edge of accusation in his voice. He hadn’t jumped at the noise. If it had been him holding the tea, it wouldn’t have spilt.

Everything makes me jump these days.

I’d hoped that would change when we moved to the countryside. But no matter how far I move, there are some things I’ll never escape.

I cover the side of my face with my hands, peering out through my fingers as I anticipate his next blow. My cheek is cold against the kitchen tiles. I lie where I’ve fallen, not daring to move in case I anger him further.

Here it comes.

I feel the connection with skin, the crack of bone. The sensation is entirely physical. My mind is numb. Emotionless. But the punch is hard and I stuff my hand into my mouth to stop the instinctive scream. My daughter is sleeping upstairs.

I’m a trapped animal, frozen to the spot, as he lets out his anger, punch by punch. I deserve this. I’ve tried my best to please him, to be the perfect wife and mother, but I’m still not good enough. I’ll never be good enough. My scars prove it. My black and blue body proves it. He can never hate me as much as I hate myself. I am nothing. No one. I lie still and let him finish, tiring himself out.

When his energy has dried up, he gives me one final, half-hearted kick in the ribs. Then he goes over to the counter and pours himself a glass of red wine, the expensive one he bought at Duty Free when he flew back from Buenos Aires last year. He leaves the room and I listen to his footsteps on the stairs.

When I hear the door of his study shut and I’m certain he’s gone for the night, I stand up shakily. I wince as I put my weight on my left leg. I must have bruised it when I fell. Habitually, I check each limb still works, cataloguing my list of aches and pains in my head. The old injuries are healing, the new ones will take time. My body is in an endless cycle of injury and recovery. It’s getting more and more difficult to lift my daughter without wincing.

I go to the hallway to look in the mirror. I observe my face critically, as if it’s a painting. My eye is black and there is a new bruise on my cheek. An older bruise on my other cheek has faded to yellow. I’d kidded myself that it would soon be faint enough for me to cover it with make-up and go out to the supermarket or even to a mothers’ group. But he’s made sure that’s impossible. I can’t go out like this.

For a moment, I let myself imagine fresh air tingling against my skin, my face turned up to the sun. But the idea of freedom is just a fantasy that I indulge myself in from time to time. Because I haven’t left the house for months.

I’m completely trapped.

Olivia’s screams get louder. All I want to do is read my book about baby sleep patterns, but I can’t even manage that. I’m still only on page two. I’m never going to figure out how to make her sleep at night at this rate. Even before Olivia started screaming, I couldn’t concentrate. My mind is so jumbled with thoughts of everything that needs doing, and worries about how I’m going to cope with looking after Olivia. I’d hoped that the relaxed atmosphere of the countryside would rub off on me and I’d form a better bond with my daughter. But even trying to read the parenting books is fruitless. I never get a moment to myself.

The sofa is an island amongst stacks of brown removal boxes. There’s so much to unpack but nowhere to put it. Every drawer is crammed full with Pamela’s things. Ruth says she plans to go through everything herself, one item at a time. But she’s not emotionally ready yet. In the meantime, we stumble and trip and manoeuvre around the piles of boxes in every room. We are in transition, waiting. Everything in the house is dulled by a layer of dust. Once the house is clear of Pamela’s things and we’ve unpacked so we can see the carpet, I’ll give every inch of every room a thorough scrub.

The screams get louder. My back twinges in sympathy. My body hasn’t realigned itself since the pregnancy. My spine isn’t straight, my posture is off. I’m constantly leaning over, to change nappies, to comfort Olivia, to bath her. It shocks me how we all do this. Mothers everywhere. We bend down in reverence to our children, bow at their feet, as if they are the demigods we have to pray to, to keep our lives in order.

The screams have stopped. She’s dead. The thought enters my consciousness and I know I should dismiss it, but I can’t. I imagine finding Olivia trapped between the cot and the wall, unable to take a breath. Terror shudders through me.

I rush up the stairs, squeezing past the stairlift.

Olivia is sound asleep in her cot, her toy bunny next to her, in Pamela’s spare bedroom. I sigh with relief. Her face is still damp from her tears and I want to touch her cheek and wipe them away, but I daren’t in case she wakes.

The battered bed next to the cot calls to me. The black paint has peeled off the metal frame, and the mattress sags in the middle, but I’m exhausted and it looks like the most welcoming bed in the world. I give in and ease myself onto it, as gently as possible so I don’t disturb Olivia. The spring in the middle creaks as it digs into my spine and a faint smell of damp rises out of the mattress as it gives in to my weight. I don’t care. Just five minutes sleep, five seconds.

The doorbell rings.

There is a pause, a moment of stillness so complete that I have to hold my breath in order not to interrupt it. Then the doorbell rings again and Olivia’s screams pierce the air.

I thump the pillow beside me and swing my legs over the side of the bed. There’s no way my baby will go back to sleep now. I pick her up and hold her to my chest, rocking her back and forth.

The doorbell rings for the third time.

‘Coming,’ I shout. Perhaps it’s Ruth, checking up on me. I must get down the stairs before she lets herself in with her key. On our very first evening in the cottage, she came in while we were putting Olivia to bed. We’d found her in the living room, rummaging through a cupboard, looking for a DVD she’d lent Pamela before she died.

The visitor is silhouetted in the frosted pane of the door. A flash of red. Too tall to be Ruth.

I open the door and a woman in a smart red coat smiles at me warmly and offers a manicured hand. In her other arm she carries a small baby snuggled up in a coat exactly the same shade of red as her mother’s.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I’m Emma. I live down the road.’

I manage to return the smile as I reach out my hand, juggling Olivia as she fidgets on my hip. I feel embarrassed by the dried baby sick on the shoulder of my oversized jumper and wonder how Emma manages to look so immaculate, with her poker-straight blonde hair and expensive clothes.

‘Claire,’ I say and Olivia screams, as if she needs to join the conversation. Emma’s baby stares at the sky, oblivious to everything going on around it. I push my curly brown hair behind my ears, hoping I remembered to brush it this morning.

I’m sure Emma must think I’m a mess, but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I’m so glad someone else with a baby has moved in,’ she says excitedly. ‘I saw the removal van the other day and I thought I must introduce myself. You’re Ruth’s daughter, aren’t you?’

‘Her daughter-in-law,’ I correct quickly.

‘Oh,’ Emma says, and I catch what I’m sure is a sympathetic look.

‘Do you know her?’

‘Everyone knows her. She’s the kind of person you need to know in this village. If you’re her daughter-in-law, you’ll be looked after.’

I smile, bemused. There’s a whole side of Ruth I know nothing about.

Emma reaches down and picks up a brown paper bag, with a logo I recognise from a shop in a nearby town.

‘I bought you some cake. As a welcome to the neighbourhood. Shall I bring it in?’

I want to say no. I don’t have enough energy for a conversation.

But Emma has already stepped over the threshold and into my home.

‘Shall I take my shoes off?’ she asks, sitting down on our dirty bottom stair, juggling her baby as she unzips her boots.

I cringe. The house is filthy. Soon the feet of Emma’s pale tights will be black from the dirt and dust.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ I say, gesturing half-heartedly at the unpacked boxes.

Emma smiles. ‘Hard to keep a tidy house with a baby.’

‘What’s your baby’s name?’ I ask.

‘Lizzie. And yours?’

‘Olivia.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Two months.’

‘Lizzie’s three months.’

The interaction is following the same script as all my introductions to other new mothers. The same conversation plays out at every mother and baby group across the country. Our lines are so well rehearsed it feels like we’ve met a hundred times before.

‘Come through,’ I say, picking my voice up, trying to be more friendly.

I see the cottage with fresh eyes as I lead Emma through to the dilapidated kitchen. I’ve been convinced that as soon as Matt and I remove the clutter we can make the house our own. But now I notice the peeling 1970s wallpaper and the unidentifiable stains on the threadbare carpet.

‘This is Matt’s grandmother’s house,’ I explain. ‘She passed away.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Emma says, concern in her eyes.

‘It’s OK. I didn’t know her that well. But my mother-in-law… well, she’s finding it hard to let go. I want to put some pictures up, maybe give the house a lick of paint. But Ruth…’ I try to think of the best way to phrase it, so I don’t sound ungrateful. ‘Ruth wants the house kept as it is for now. She’s still grieving.’

‘It must be difficult for her.’

‘Yes, I know,’ I say. I lost my own mother years ago and I remember how hard it was to part with her possessions.

‘It’s an amazing place. So much history.’

Emma is at my kitchen counter, holding Lizzie under one arm as she rifles through a drawer and pulls out a knife to cut the cake. I put Olivia down and go over to the sink under the window to fill the kettle. I can see Ruth and Jack’s house at the end of our garden. A dark, looming shadow. There’s no one home.

‘How big a slice do you want?’ Emma asks, moving the knife round the cake to indicate where she might cut.

‘A small one,’ I say.

I look at her slim waist enviously and wonder why some women’s bodies seem to snap back into shape after they give birth.

In the living room, I put down the tea and cake and offer Emma a seat on the antique sofa. The flowered cushions sag as we sit down.

Between mouthfuls, Emma tells me everything there is to do in the area. There’s a park up the road and the local mothers run a playgroup once a week in the village.

‘There’s more in Oxford,’ she says. ‘It’s only half an hour in the car. There’s baby yoga, baby swimming, baby cinema. Anything you fancy doing, you can take a baby with you.’

‘What did you do before?’ I ask.

‘Before?’

‘You know. Before Lizzie. Before maternity. Before nappies and sleepless nights.’

Emma laughs. ‘I was in senior management. Can’t imagine it now though. How about you?’

I have a childish desire to impress her. ‘I’m a journalist,’ I say. It’s a white lie. I was a journalist once. It feels like a lifetime ago.

‘Local press?’

‘No, one of the big national papers. In London.’ I smile nervously, wondering if she’ll ask for the name of the paper. I don’t want to tell her. What if she looks me up and sees I haven’t worked there for years?

‘Gosh, a national paper. It’s so hard to break into that field. You must have been determined.’

I nod, embarrassed. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to remember how well I was doing before my career came to a swift end.

Emma’s eyes search mine. ‘What brings you all the way out here? It’s a long commute to London.’

‘My husband’s a vet. He’s setting up a new practice here. And we wanted to be closer to his parents, so they could help out with Olivia. So I’m less alone.’

Heat rises to my face. I hadn’t meant to admit I’m lonely.

But Emma’s expression is understanding.

‘Where are your family?’ she asks.

‘My father was never around. And my mother… She passed away. A long time ago.’ I pick up my tea and take a sip, hiding behind the motion. It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow. It always brings everything back.

‘It’s so hard without the support. My parents are gone too.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was years ago. I was a child.’

We sit in silence for a moment, before Emma turns the conversation back to babies. Sleep patterns. Feeding. Colic. The topics are comfortingly familiar. Emma’s warm and easy to talk to and I hardly notice the time pass. We keep chatting as the sky begins to darken, but Emma doesn’t seem to be in any rush to get home.

When Emma eventually gets up to leave it’s already Olivia’s bedtime and even then I don’t want her to go. I hadn’t realised how much I craved company. Matt has been working late every night since we moved, and I always put Olivia to bed alone.

On the doorstep, spur of the moment, I invite Emma and her partner round to dinner, later in the week.

I see the shadow cross her face and immediately regret it. It’s too soon. We hardly know each other.

‘I don’t have a partner,’ she says. ‘I’m a single mother.’ She seems to shrink in front of me, her eyes dewy.

‘Oh,’ I reply, surprised. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean––’

She straightens up, blinking back tears. ‘It’s OK,’ she says, with a forced smile. ‘At least I have Lizzie.’

Before I can reply, she sweeps her blonde hair back behind her ears, turns and walks away, hurrying down the driveway. I feel awful that I’ve upset her, especially after we’d had such a lovely afternoon. I hoped we might be friends. But now I’ve messed that up.

I go back to the living room and feel the silence caving in on me. Without Emma’s chatter it feels like the cottage itself is breathing, inhaling and exhaling as it bides its time. Even in my own living room I feel self-conscious, like someone is watching.

Olivia’s eyes follow me across the room as I clear away the teacups. Maybe it’s her. Maybe my own baby is making me nervous. She’s always watching. I never know what she’s thinking. Sometimes it feels like she’s peering into my soul and judging me for all my inadequacies as a mother.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I jump at the noise. It’s coming from upstairs. A gentle rhythm. Knocking.

I pick Olivia up and go up the stairs. Only half an hour ago the cottage felt open and warm and welcoming, filled with Emma’s laughter. Now the air is heavy, oppressive.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I get to the top of the stairs and peer through the open bathroom door.

It’s just the blind banging against the window frame. Emma must have left the window open when she used the bathroom.

I let my breath out and then laugh. What’s wrong with me? How can I be so paranoid about every sound?

Olivia looks at me and starts to cry. I think about how Lizzie didn’t cry the whole time she was here, but Olivia needed constant comforting. I grit my teeth as the all too familiar anger rises inside me. I push it back down and it’s quickly replaced by the guilt that swirls around my head constantly. I want so much to love my daughter the way I should, but I just don’t seem to have it in me.

Sometimes I wonder if her older sister would have been different. If she’d survived. Would she have been more good-natured? Would we have had a stronger bond?

Perhaps Olivia is taking her cues from me. The loss of her sister numbed my emotions, and now I can’t love my baby the way I want to. Maybe she senses my fear and reflects it back.

With my daughter clutched under one arm, I pull the bathroom blind up and shut the window. It overlooks our garden. I stare out at the pond; a dark hole of dirty water, reflecting the moonlight. I shiver, imagining myself submerging under its murky surface, getting caught in a tangle of weeds that lurk beneath. It’s not safe having a pond in the garden with a small child. One moment of inattention and a child could drown. I can’t let Olivia play outside until it’s drained. A cloud passes over the moon and for a moment the pond disappears, lost in the dark green grass. But I know it’s out there, a deep dark hole, an accident waiting to happen.

When I wake the next day, I have a moment of peace before I remember it’s my mother’s birthday. When I sit up, I feel my headache building behind my eyes and I reach for the paracetamol on my bedside table. Another birthday she isn’t here to celebrate. Reality is dulled as I go through the motions of the morning, feeding Olivia and preparing breakfast. While Matt gets Olivia ready, I light a candle, filling the kitchen with my mother’s favourite orange blossom scent, and stand still for a moment, eyes closed, imagining she’s with me. Tears slide down my face, before I’m brought back into the moment by Olivia’s cries. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand.

‘Ready to go?’ asks Matt gently, touching my shoulder lightly.

I turn and he sees my grief. He wraps his arms around me and holds me.

After a moment, I pull away. ‘I’m ready.’

I blow out the candle and walk to the door. I have a second candle in my bag, that I’ll light at my mother’s grave. It’s hard to believe a whole year has passed since I last visited.

Matt drives us to Wimbledon, where my mother’s buried. We stop at a petrol station on the way and I buy flowers and bottled water. I ignore the displays of red roses and instead opt for orange and yellow chrysanthemums; her favourites.

At the graveside, I sit cross-legged on the grass, as the wind whips through my hair. The ground is hard and I can feel the February frost seeping through my jeans. I’ve been coming to my mother’s grave on this day for the last twelve years. I fill the built-in vase with the bottled water and add the brightly coloured flowers, spreading them around evenly. They already look dog-eared and I tip in the little packet of flower food that came taped to the stems, in the vain hope they’ll last a few more hours in their battle against the elements.

I put my candle on the cold, flat granite and strike the first match. It takes three before there’s a spark of life. It’s immediately blown out by the wind. Every year it’s the same. There’s only ever a flicker of light, before it goes out, but it’s enough for me to have shared that light with her, if only for a second.

‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ I whisper. The words disappear into the air.

I close my eyes and try to bring her back. Her smell; her perfume mixed with the strawberry scent of her shampoo. I imagine her voice, her laugh, her smile when she greets me. I imagine the feel of her arms around me, strong and dependable when I was a child and then weak and fragile, bird-like, before the cancer finally took her. I can picture her with Olivia, gathering her up in a hug and then rocking her gently, gazing into her eyes adoringly.

But it wasn't meant to be.

I glance across the cemetery and see Olivia with Matt on the other side of the vast space. Matt is bending over to read the inscriptions on gravestones, Olivia close to him in her sling. I’m glad she isn’t old enough to understand.

On my side of the family there is only me. My father disappeared off to his new life in South Africa long before my mother passed away. I’m glad Olivia will grow up close to Matt’s parents. I hope that between us all we can give her enough love, so she won’t ever feel like she’s missing out on her other set of grandparents.

I chat to my mother as if she’s alive. On her bir. . .