My mother’s house looks exactly as she left it.
Two novels sit by the armchair, their pages neatly marked for book group. Pinned to the noticeboard is a shopping list in only slightly shaky writing, with “FRUIT!” in urgent capitals, and “make soup” underlined. The sole outward signs of something missing are her cats twining needily around me – loneliness having finally overcome their innate horror of visitors – and the one thing I can’t bear to look at, which is the empty hospital bed marooned bleakly in the sitting room. Delivered by social services when it was deemed she could no longer manage stairs, it is now stripped bare, awaiting collection. Another family will be needing it.
