Mum’s place is two buses and a ten-minute walk. I hate the commute but I like the distance.

She pants at the door like it’s an effort to let me in.

You look tired, dear.

Hello to you, too, I don’t say. Long week at work. Lots of cases.

I close the door and wait. The hall is too narrow for two. She shuffles into the living room, falls into her dent in the couch. I bought steaks, she announces. You like those.

I like real steak. She likes pork steak.

I’d better get started on dinner.

Don’t you want to sit for a minute first?

You’ll be hungry soon, I call over my shoulder.

It gets messy so quickly in the small kitchen. I wash the stacks of dishes, creating space to cook. The steaks are easy enough. A dry rub and fifteen minutes on low heat. The scent of frying onion, teasingly sweet. New potatoes, with pepper and butter – never margarine, lest we forget. Frozen peas become boiled peas.

The kitchen is a trap for memory. Mum and I baking together, her not seeming to mind when I made a mess, which I always did. Back when my clumsiness was endearing.

The oven buzzes and I move mechanically. Dinner on a TV tray. Which complaint will it be this evening. Too salty. Too spicy. Too hot, too cold. Since Dad, nothing is good enough. Rose-tinted memories, and if she realises that I miss ...