Anna sits on the bare mattress and watches her mother fuss with the chintz-style curtains.

She catches her father’s eye and he shakes his head. As usual, they are in silent agreement about Carole’s neuroses.

‘Leave it, Carole,’ Andrew says. ‘She can sort it out later.’

Carole ignores him and continues to puffle the curtains, the metal hoops clattering against the rail with increased frenzy.

A moment later, the curtains are pulled smoothly and the September sunshine is dammed.

‘There we are,’ Carole says, opening and closing the curtains with newfound ease. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

Anna nods obligingly. ‘Great,’ she says. ‘Thanks Mum.’

Her mother’s eyes scan the room and Anna knows that she is desperate to see something – anything - that will keep here, that will keep her useful.

Andrew glances at his watch. ‘We should be getting back,’ he says.

‘For God’s sake, Andrew,’ Carole says. ‘We’ve only just got here.’

She opens a holdall of Anna’s clothes and Anna purses her lips. At this tipping point of independence, she wants nothing more than to be left alone; to unpack her belongings in this new room in this new building with its prospectus promises of the best days of her life.

She knows well enough, though, that even suggesting solitude would incite one of her mother’s martyr-like monologues; one that would mark every misdemeanour in Anna’s eighteen years, rise in volume and severity and climax with a slammed door or slapped face. Such a performance is bad enough in private, let alone in public.

As she joins her mother hanging clothes in the wardrobe, Anna overhears her father talking to another family in the corridor.

When they all laugh loudly, Carole says, ‘Why can’t he leave people alone? Tell him to get in here and make himself useful.’

‘It’s fine, Mum,’ Anna says quickly and without thinking. ‘He’s only talking.’

Carole’s expression darkens at once and Anna feels her own face flush red.

‘Fine,’ Carole says, snatching up her handbag from the desk by the window.

She strides out of the room and cuts Andrew’s anecdote dead with, ‘Come on. We’re going.’

In the car park, Anna embraces her father while her mother leans against the halls of residence smoking her second cigarette in five minutes.

When Andrew starts the engine, Carole passes Anna without a word and steps into the passenger seat.

Across the car park, twin girls cheerily wave goodbye to their parents who clamber into an old camper van and Anna feels a swell of rage towards her mother for ruining this day.

As Carole winds down the window, words Anna’s never been brave enough to say balance on the tip of her tongue.
Her heart races as she ducks down, but, as she opens her mouth, she sees tears blur in her mother’s eyes. The sight is at once satisfying and unsettling.

In a voice so quiet that the words are almost lost in the breeze, Carole says, ‘Take care, won’t you?’