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‘I just… I’m not sure I want to see anyone,’ I reply. ‘Or celebrate at all, to be honest with you.’

‘That’s why I arranged a lunch and not a dinner,’ she says, as though it’s supposed to make me feel better. ‘It’s eleven forty-five now – I thought you’d appreciate a lie-in on your birthday.’

‘Thanks,’ I say with a sigh. At least there’s that.

‘But I did tell guests they could drop in for a bite from midday, so you should get ready – wear something nice.’

I don’t say anything. When she’s gone I fall back against the pillows, not that I’ve got time to. I can barely drink my tea and get dressed in fifteen minutes, never mind compose myself or psych myself up for the day.

I mean, what else can I do, other than comply? I blast my hair with dry shampoo, cake on some make-up and slip into a dark brown dress. I can say it’s brown for autumn, rather than the truth, because I’m not feeling all that bright.

By the time I make it downstairs, Mum has transformed the kitchen into what appears to be a harvest festival in my honour.

There are leaf-print napkins, fairy lights twisted around pinecones as a centrepiece – even the food, which does look great, is definitely autumn coded. Truthfully, I think my mum just really loves this time of year. It’s how she pre-games Christmas, which she loves even more. Any excuse for a theme, an extra bit of décor, lights. My dad, as you’d expect from a Yorkshire man, is, by his own admission, ‘not arsed’.

There are tiny pumpkins on the windowsill – although I think they were already there, now that I think about it – but the jug of flowers in rusty reds and yellows might be new. And then there’s the banner, hanging proudly in the archway, that reads: Happy 30th Birthday Lia!

Mum appears beside me, wearing the proud expression of a woman who has been up since dawn, making her own root vegetable crisps.

‘Isn’t it lovely?’

It isn’t, but I don’t say that.

Dad looks up from the table, from behind his newspaper – where he often hides from Mum when she’s in ‘event’ mode.

‘Morning, birthday girl.’

‘Morning,’ I reply.

‘Thirty,’ he says, grinning.

‘Be careful, Ken, she’ll bite your head off if you say her age too many times,’ Mum tells him.

Dad chuckles as I sit down at the table. That’s when I notice a glittery tiara with a big ‘30’ at the centre.

‘I don’t have to wear this, do I?’ I check.

‘I’d love it if you did,’ she tells me. ‘Even if it’s just for a photo, just for me…’

‘Is the photo just for you?’ I check. ‘You won’t post it on Facebook?’

‘I could tell you that I wouldn’t but, you know, my darling, I inadvertently post all sorts.’

I know – I’m the one who has to help her remove things in a panic.

Rory appears, holding Jack under one arm like a sack of potatoes, a gift bag hooked on his other arm.

‘Say “Happy birthday, Auntie Lia”,’ Rory says, dropping Jack off on my lap.

Jack grabs my face and says… something.

‘Thank you, gorgeous.’

Rory drops the gift bag on the table.

‘Happy thirtieth, little sister.’

‘She doesn’t like hearing the number,’ Mum warns him.