When I woke up, my family were standing around me, shoulder to shoulder and silent in the small, oppressive room. My father, hands in pockets and his tie dishevelled; my youngest brother, his thumb securely in his mouth; my mother, brothers, sister-in-law, all crowding around the bed like a perfect family in a picture book. I shut my eyes again quickly, hoping that no one had noticed my eyelashes flicker. I even tried to regulate my breathing, to ease myself back into sleep. Perhaps I succeeded – I didn’t hear anyone leave the room, yet when I next dared open my eyes, my mother was sitting, alone, on a chair beside my bed.

“Take it out.” The rough, primitive sound, just recognisable as speech, surprised both of us. I tried again, refining and improving my mind’s control over my lungs. “Not in the vase. Take it out.” She looked startled, but removed the poppy without a word, placing it with the other flower. Their heads were turned away from each other as if in disdain. When I showed no signs of speaking again, my mother left the room quietly, gently, carrying the vase in the crook of her arm and looking back with an odd expression before she closed the door.