The next day Maisie comes to try and talk to me. You can always tell when she’s got something big she wants to say because she creeps in like a mouse and sits on the edge of the bed and smooths down the covers and you can see it coming a mile off. I just sit there and wait.

You’re probably really confused about everything that’s happened, she says.

I shrug. I tell him I'm not confused and that I'm not some stupid little kid.

Right. No, of course. Nobody is saying you are. You’re a very smart young boy, Luke. But that doesn’t mean you can’t find some things difficult.

Already it is annoying. Like being in church, or when the photographer comes. Being lied to and made to sing or smile and jerked around. I tell her that I'm fine.

Okay, says Maisie. She picks at the cover of my bed. Okay. She pauses for a long time, and then without looking at me says, Your mother... she means well. And she loves you. She really, really does.