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As the film drew to an end, her mum yawned.

“Do you need to get to bed, Mum?”

“I think so.”

“I should head off, too,” Lucie said, making something in Frances tighten.

“Stay,” she said before she could stop herself. “For another drink. I’ll help Mum to bed. It’ll only take ten minutes.” It would likely take more, but she didn’t want to put Lucie off. “Help yourself to some more wine.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

Frances’s tone softened. “I am. Stay put.”

“Night, Rose,” Lucie called out as Frances led her mum into the hallway.

“Night, Lucie. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“You will.”

“What day is it tomorrow?”

“Friday,” Lucie replied.

Although her mum nodded, her expression dimmed slightly. Frances had wondered if she was missing Lucie’s company at weekends. She did herself, so it was only natural that her mum would too.

By the time she returned, Lucie was watching the nine o’clock news.

“Sorry. Sometimes she’s slow to undress.” She paused, noticing the kitchen was spotless. “You didn’t need to clear up.”

“It’s the least I could do. I can’t remember the last time I had a homemade cottage pie,” Lucie said, switching off the television and waving the remote. “I see you bought a simpler one.”

“Yes. Thanks for the link. Mum seems to get on well with it,” Frances replied, refilling their glasses. Picking up her own, she sat back, tucking herself beside Lucie.

“She was telling me today that you were always a stickler for the rules as a child, and you didn’t have many friends because you were too bossy.” Lucie sniggered.

Frances narrowed her eyes and nudged her. “I knew I was going to regret asking you for help.”

“Have you never sought help from anywhere? You know there are plenty of societies and groups that offer support for you too. It’s not only your mum who’s living with it.”

Frances exhaled. “No. I thought — or more hoped — I could manage. It feels foolish now, especially when I had no idea what to expect. You tell yourself you’ll adapt. That it won’t be so bad. That everything will settle into some kind of rhythm. At the beginning, I thought asking for help was a weakness. I did until recently.” She glanced at Lucie. Something whispered through her as their gaze held. “I thought if I stayed organised, I could keep on top of everything.” A faint, humourless smile touched her mouth. “I underestimated how relentless it is.”

Lucie tilted her head. “I know exactly what you mean. I was with Gran pretty much twenty-four seven towards the end. It was exhausting.”

Frances’s focus drifted to the photograph of her mum. “Her forgetting isn’t the hardest part. Not at first. You expect that. It’s the in-between moments. The way she looks at me sometimes, knowing something isn’t right but not what. I can see the fear.” She swallowed. “Or when she’s certain something isn’t true, and I’m the one who sounds mad trying to correct her.”

“You start off correcting everything,” Lucie said. “Dates, details. You think you’re helping. Then you realise you’re only exhausting yourself and distressing them. And the worrying, it’s constant, isn’t it? Are they safe? Have they wandered? Did they eat? Did they take the tablets or hide them in a plant pot? You go to bed listening for movement. You wake up at every sound.” She let out a soft breath. “You don’t realise how much of yourself you’ve handed over until you can’t remember what it felt like not to be on alert.”

“Yes, exactly.” Frances’s fingers played with the stem of the glass. “I keep adjusting to each new version of her, and then when I think I’ve found my footing, the ground shifts again.”

Lucie edged a little closer on the sofa. “Yes. At first, it’s all about practical help. Then you realise you’re grieving in slow motion. They’re still sitting there, smiling at you, and yet parts of them are already gone.”

Frances looked up, catching the tear on Lucie’s cheek. “You get it.”

Lucie reached out, her warm hand pressed into Frances’s arm briefly. She immediately wished it would return. “I do. I went to university not long after Gran died, and it took a year or two for me to sleep deeply again. To trust that I could.”

“Did you not have any help looking after her?”

“Dad and Mandy were there if I needed a break. But Gran’s world shrank into one room, and she stopped recognising them... and eventually me...” She paused. “But she still trusted me. She might not have remembered I was her granddaughter, but she knew me in some capacity. I could soothe her.” Lucie picked up her wine glass and took a sip. “Dad really struggled with it all, especially after having lost Mum, so Mandy often stepped in.”