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Lucie pulled her into her arms. Frances let herself fall, her composure breaking completely. Something that had been building for years was finally giving way now that she felt safe to talk about it.

“Let it out,” Lucie’s voice whispered in her ear, soft and soothing.

Frances wouldn’t normally let anyone see her in this vulnerable state — it went against everything she’d ever known — but something about Lucie pulled an honesty from her and stripped away any defences.

When she pulled back, the air felt different. Was she imagining it? Lucie was inches from her face, and she desperately wanted to close the gap between them. Her eyes closed in hopeful anticipation as she inhaled.

Lucie pulled herself back. What on earth was she thinking, getting so close? Frances had opened up, and she’d almost taken advantage of her during a vulnerable moment. It was a brief and reckless urge to kiss the pain from her, but she’d resisted.

She lifted her hand and wiped the tear from Frances’s cheek.

“You can always talk to me, Frances. I can help.”

Frances opened her eyes and exhaled sharply. Lucie reached for a handful of tissues from a box on the side table and handed them to her, watching as she pressed one to her face and blew her nose.

“I told Mara... about Mum, I mean. She already knew the toast wasn’t burnt by you. Apparently, she’d spoken to you moments before.”

Lucie bit her lip. It was inevitable that Mara would go looking for answers after their chat.

“Sorry. I didn’t think about that at the time.”

“It’s fine.” Frances sniffed. “I’d been avoiding it for too long. Trying to keep a grip on everything. Mara said she won’t tell the trustees about Mum if I bring the situation under control. Which means stepping back... or getting help.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to step back. And I don’t feel qualified to look after Mum either.” She paused, her voice tightening. “Is it selfish to say I’m not sure I want to? I think it would suffocate me. I chose not to have children for this reason... and, well, lack of opportunity.”

“Of course it’s not selfish,” Lucie reassured her.

“I just don’t know what to do,” Frances admitted. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want any of it, for her or for me. I want everything to be as it was.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I feel guilty, and I don’t even know why.”

Lucie’s chest tightened. She knew that feeling — the weight, the helplessness — and she’d had some level of support from her dad and Mandy. Frances was alone.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty. It was nothing you did, nothing you could have done to prevent it. I’m sure you’re doing the best you can.”

“If I don't know what I'm doing, how can I be doing my best? We’re existing, not living.”

Lucie paused, giving her a moment as she blew her nose again. “Did you know that the largest population of elephants in the world is in Botswana?”

Frances wiped her eyes. “No.”

“They live in a matriarchal herd led by the oldest female. She holds everything — safe routes, the water sources, the memory of friendly and hostile herds. They rely on her memory.” She leaned back slightly, and Frances did the same. “When she starts to falter, the herd doesn’t fall apart; another female steps in. Not because she wants to, or she’s ready, but because someone has to. The roles shift, and the rest of the herd adjusts around that. That’s how they survive.” She met Frances’s gaze. “That’s what you’re doing. Whether you feel ready or not.”

Frances nodded and sniffed, playing with the tissues in her hand as she listened.

“You did the right thing by moving out of the hall,” Lucie continued, “and a time will come when you have to pivot again. You’re scared because no one prepares you for this, but doing nothing is not an option, Frances. I’ve been where you are. There was no one else who could do what I did for Gran, and there isn’t anyone your mum needs more than you.” She gave a small shrug. “I didn’t go to university with my peers. I gave up my life, lost touch with friends, but there was no way I wasn’t going to be there for her. She was like a mum to me when I needed one.”

“How old you were when you lost your mum?” Frances said, reaching for her tea.

“Four,” Lucie replied, doing the same.

“So young. Do you remember her at all?”

Lucie’s mouth pulled to one side. “Not really. I just have fragments of memory that I’m not even sure are mine. They could have come from other people’s stories of her and what I’ve pulled together from the few photos I have of her.”

“Did your dad raise you then?”

“Gran mostly. Dad tried, but he couldn't cope after my mum’s death. I can see it still haunts him. Gran moved in with Dad and me, and he carried on as he always did, throwing himself into the pub.”

“The pub in the village?”

Lucie nodded.