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I know she means well, and she’s just worried about me, but I kept hearing her last night, popping her head inside the doorway, to make sure I was okay. What I really need right now is privacy but, let’s be honest, I’ve come to the wrong place for that.

Ah well, time to put on a brave face – and the bright pink dressing gown that my gran bought me for Christmas when I was seventeen – and head downstairs so that my mum can start feeding me better.

Somehow, I don’t think there’s going to be enough food in the fridge.

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Even washing my face and brushing my teeth feels like quite a grand gesture, given how I’m feeling, and the fact that I’m only going as far as the breakfast table. Then again, this is probably an intervention masquerading as a breakfast, so let’s push the boat out – I’ll brush my hair.

I twist my long blonde hair into a messy bun – words that make it sound like an intentional style, whereas the reality of the situation is more that I can’t really be arsed. A true, styled messy bun always looks gorgeous. Mine looks like it might have birds living in it, and they are welcome to. I’d love a little company for the colder months.

The landing feels cold compared to my bedroom. There is one advantage to going downstairs: it smells warm and delicious, like toast, tea and whatever candle my mum is burning to make the house feel autumnal and festive.

I arrive in the kitchen to find Mum, Dad, and my brother Rory all already there.

‘You look how you feel, I’m guessing,’ Rory says immediately – brotherly love at its finest.

‘Mum said you were up for school, but I didn’t realise you’d still be here, ruining my breakfast,’ I point out, collapsing onto a chair.

‘And you don’t want to be late,’ Mum reminds him, placing a mug of tea in front of me – at least I can always say that the service here is excellent.

Rory grabs a piece of toast from the rack and shoves it between his teeth while wrestling himself into his dark green wool coat.

‘He’s a teacher, not a kid, Helen,’ my dad, Ken, reminds her.

‘Oh, thank God,’ Rory says with faux relief. ‘I was dreading double PE.’

I roll my eyes right back into the hood of my dressing gown.

Despite being my older brother – and twelve years older than me – it never quite feels like Rory flew the nest, because he and his wife bought the house next door. He’s got two kids – well, almost. His wife, Sally, is eight months pregnant. Jack, his two-year-old, is very much here.

‘Anyway, see you all later,’ Rory says, grabbing his keys from the side. ‘Sally says she’ll be round with Jack, once she’s got him dressed.’

‘Looking forward to it,’ Mum tells him – and she really is. She’s been talking about grandkids for as long as I can remember, not in a pressuring way, more like a genuine excitement.

Rory opens the side door, letting in a sharp burst of chilly morning air before slamming it shut again.

I remember Rory saying that he was buying the house next door because he wanted his kids to have the same upbringing he did – what I didn’t realise was by that he meant that his parents would be doing most of the hard work. Mum looks after Jack, while Rory is at work, and while Sally is enjoying time to herself. She’s heavily pregnant now, sure, but she hasn’t been for the last two and a half years.

‘Come on, Lia, I got all of your favourites,’ Mum prompts me. ‘Well, the ones that survived Jamie Oliver.’

I laugh as I grab the box of Coco Pops, pouring myself a bowl.

Crunching aside, the silence is pure awkward. Dad offers a half-smile as Mum watches me like a hawk.

‘Come on, eat up, it’s the best cure,’ Mum insists.

‘She doesn’t need to eat cereal, she needs to get to the job centre,’ Dad ever so helpfully adds.

‘I was talking about her broken heart, not the fact that she’s unemployed,’ Mum replies.

Yikes, that one stings.

‘Sorry, love,’ she quickly adds. ‘I didn’t mean to bring that up.’

I bat my hand.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reply. ‘What I really need is fifteen porn star martinis, enough ice cream to cause a shortage, and a horror movie marathon.’