The cold-hearted son turned his back on his mother as she headed to hospital for surgery, while he and his wife set off for a trip down south.

Harriet married at twenty, and by twenty-two had welcomed her first and only child into a world that felt blurry and detached. Her indifference to children was something she wore like a heavy, invisible coat. When her son, Oliver, was born, Harriet and her husband, George, whisked him off to her own mothers cottage in Somerset. They sent a bank transfer in pounds every month, and pursued their own peculiar joys in London, where the air tasted like roses and neon.

Two years later, the grandmother vanished, slipping away as quietly as rain on cobblestones, and Oliver was returned to their townhouse. Harriets annoyance simmered, and she hustled him off to the nursery to keep him out of her sightthen ushered him on to the local kindergarten. At primary school, the other children laughed at Oliver. Letters curled and twisted on pages, impossible to decipher. He could not grasp words, nor summon them with any clarity. The teachers rang Harriet time and again, but she never seemed to have a spare moment. One afternoon, George finally turned up, bewildered and out of place in the school corridors. The staff cornered him, confiding in hushed whispers about Olivers wild behaviour.

Returning home through puddles reflecting upside-down skies, George lashed out, punishing Oliver with a belt. Years later, when Oliver staggered out of secondary school, Harriet nudged him towards the local factory, a shadowy warren of machines and strange echoes. There, Oliver met Alice, his future wife. The factorys management, in a fit of generosity, handed them the keys to a modest flat. When Harriet became a grandmother, her heart remained cold, like fog rising over fields in the early morning.

She posted the odd ten pounds for the childrens birthdays, but otherwise drifted along. Then the day arrived: Harriets retirement. She wanted a grand fêtegleaming gold and silver, a swirl of treasures and delicacies. So, she rang Oliver. Ive sent you a deposit on your bank card. Take Alice, buy food and trinkets. Well celebrate my retirement at your place. All right, mum, said Oliver.

He and Alice packed their children off to the countryside in Norfolk, not wanting giggles and shrieks to disrupt the event. When everything was ready, Harriet swept in, content and regal. Lovely. Now, head to the kitchen. The guests are comingwe need to greet them, and when they leave, well sit together. Oliver and Alice dutifully retreated, watching from the kitchen as laughter, music, and swirling coats filled their home.

When the last guest melted into the moonlit streets, Harriet entered the kitchen and announced, One slice of cake left, split it between yourselves. Im feeling poorly now. Were off homeI wont sit with you. The taste of disappointment lingered in Olivers mouth. A week later, Harriets voice floated over the phone, muffled and odd. Son, theyre taking me in for surgery. Bring me some thingsIll send a list. Oliver replied, Sorry, were holidaying in Cornwall with Alice. Try dad instead. Bye.

In that moment, the dream twisted, and the clouds above the city whispered that Harriet, too, was only a passing shadow, and the world had spun on without her.