My phone buzzes in the passenger seat. A text from Louis, probably. I don't look at it. Can't. Not yet.

The familiar turn-off comes sooner than I expect, and suddenly I'm on roads I know by heart even though I've only been here a handful of times. The hedgerows are taller than I remember, the lane narrower. The satnav has given up and gone quiet, but I don't need it.

The gates are open.

I pull up on the gravel, engine cutting out with a soft chug. The house sits there, warm light spilling from the kitchen window, smoke curling from the chimney. It looks exactly the same. That's the problem. That's the whole problem.

I sit in the car for a long moment, hands still on the wheel, breathing in and out and in and out until my chest stops feeling like it's caving in.

Then the front door opens.

The moment I hit her arms, the sob rips out of me. Ugly and raw and ten years late.

She holds me. Solid. Warm. One hand cradling the back of my head like I'm eight years old again, like she's done this a hundred times before.