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“Claire—” she says again, but I don’t let her interrupt me. Not now.

“No. You need to hear this. I’m happy, Mum. I love my life, and I love Tom.” I reach for his hand. “If you can’t accept that, then I don’t know what to tell you anymore. And I don’t know where that leaves us.”

My words seem to echo around the room, the three of us just standing there looking at each other.

Tom squeezes my hand in silent support, and I return the gesture. I’m so glad he’s here, grounding me as I make this choice. I wait for Mum to argue, but when I turn back to look at her, her eyes are misting with tears.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” Mum says. “Patricia asked me to join that board three years ago—they wanted someone to help with the fundraising. I said no, because I was busy.” She twists the ring on her finger. “But when she asked again recently I said yes, because… well, you weren’t really speaking to me and I thought it could be an opportunity to help.”

Huh? That’s not what I was expecting.

“I did try to tell you. Over the phone, but you changed the subject. I never meant for it to be a secret. I kept telling myself I’d bring it up later, but we haven’t really seen each other. I know that’s my fault, but I didn’t mean to wait this long.”

I wince. She did try to tell me. I remember cutting her off.

And she’s right, we haven’t been speaking much. Not that it really excuses her actions. All it would’ve taken was a text.

“I voted for his proposal, not that my vote actually made a difference because everyone was in favour, but I wanted to show you that I could support you. Maybe this wasn’t the best way but I thought it could help make amends.”

“When did you join, exactly? The date, Mum.”

“The end of October. My first meeting was early November.”

I do the maths, and my stomach drops through the floor. “So you were on that board while my company ran their campaign. While the board reviewed our work.”

“No— Claire, I wasn’t. Let me—”

“That’s not amends, Mum,” I continue, exasperated that she can’t see that. “It’s a massive conflict of interest that I now have to declare to my company.” I press my fingers against my forehead. Fuck. “I worked that account. My company designed that campaign… I designed it. I have to hope they believe I didn’t know, because I literally just got offered the job I wanted for six years off the back of that campaign, and now they might just take it all away.”

“Claire, I declared it,” she insists. “The day I accepted, I told the chair my daughter was at the marketing firm they’d hired. I recused myself from anything that involved your project.”

I stare at her.

“I promise, I have emails to prove it.”

“You declared it to the chair,” I say slowly, “on day one. But you didn’t text me.”

Mum flinches. “Yes.”

Tom doesn’t say anything. He’s standing very still and I can feel the questions stacking up in the silence between us. Crap. This wasn’t how I wanted him to find out about my “exciting work news”.

Mum wipes her eyes. “Would you let me explain? I understand if you don’t want to hear me out, but I want to apologise.”

I chew my lip, trying to work out what to do. The anger’s still there. It should be. Years of criticism and impossible standards don’t disappear because of one apology. But now it’s tangled with confusion. The ice inside me begins to thaw.

I look across at Tom. His expression is unreadable, but he gives a small shrug, as if to say it’s your choice. Closing my eyes for a moment, I try to work out what I actually want. I don’t owe her anything, I don’t have to listen. But maybe understanding would be helpful.

When I open my eyes again, Mum is watching me nervously.

“Ok.” I take a seat on the sofa, and Tom carefully sits beside me.

Relief flashes across her face. “I know I’ve been difficult. I wish I could take back the things I said about Tom. Recently, I’ve realised the patterns I’ve fallen into. It doesn’t justify my behaviour, I know that, but I hope it will help you understand.”

I don’t trust my voice yet, so I give her a half nod.

Mum takes a breath. “When I was your age, my parents had money. Not enormous wealth, but enough. And then suddenly we just lost it. I was never really told why but it all happened so fast.” Her eyes are still locked on mine, beseeching. “One day we had a housekeeper, the next we didn’t. Then some of the paintings started disappearing, and the house became emptier and emptier. People started commenting, those who had been my friends suddenly stopped caring. It was…” She swallows. “It was awful. And somewhere around that time I learnt an equation I’ve never questioned since: money is safety, and safety is happiness. Therefore any child without the first couldn’t possibly have the third. It felt rational at the time, even though I know that your father and I could support you regardless. It’s just fear, and habit now.”

I blink, staying silent. I’ve never heard this story before. I don’t have any memories of her parents, they both died when I was three, too young to have any real recollections of spending time with them.