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her attention with his dumb behaviour. She had spent her life being frustrated by
Adam, playing together and invariably falling out. Adam always pushed things too far, rebelled; he’d grow bored with whatever game they were playing and want to change the rules; he’d
get distracted and start playing something else. Sophie would end up incandescent, in angry tears, vowing never to play with him again. Till next time.
    His chaotic behaviour sucked up our attention while her diligence, hard work and successes won way too little recognition. Neil and I often talked of it, as things grew difficult in recent
years: how to care for Adam without neglecting Sophie. He saw the same thing with some of the kids at school: that gap between achievement and recognition when another sibling is acting up.
    We tried to talk to Sophie about it when Adam first saw the psychiatrist, to explain the situation and apologize for the upheaval, for our distraction, maybe our neglect.
    ‘It’s okay,’ she reassured us. ‘I’m fine.’
    ‘We love you, Sophie,’ Neil said.
    ‘I know, Dad. And I’m not a little kid any more. I can see that Adam needs your time.’ She was relentlessly self-reliant. But the truth was somewhat different.
    One day I found her weeping in her room, face blurred with misery. ‘Sophie, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?’
    ‘I’m sick of it, sick of everything, and Adam and living here. It’s all so shitty,’ she cried, the words a snarl of hurt.
    ‘What’s happened?’
    ‘Your precious Adam happened. I know you love him more than me.’
    My heart tore. ‘Sophie, that’s not true! I swear to you, I love you both. More than anything.’
    She gave a shuddery sigh, sniffed and wiped her face. ‘I hate it, Mum. Why can’t he just be normal and stop messing everything up?’
    ‘Adam—’ I took a breath, meaning to try to answer but her question was rhetorical.
    She went on, ‘They’re all talking about it at school. I’m not me any more, I’m just Adam Shelley’s saddo sister.’
    ‘Sophie, you are not a saddo. You’re a wonderful—’
    ‘Mum, don’t.’
    Tears burned in my eyes. ‘Hug?’ I offered, my voice too squeaky by half.
    She gave a little shrug, noncommittal. I moved in and wrapped my arms around her. Kept quiet. In a few moments she spoke: ‘When’s Dad back?’
    ‘Soon.’ Could he make it better? ‘I’ll tell him to come up and see you?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Okay. It won’t always be like this, you know. It’ll change. Everything changes.’
    She nodded. ‘Yeah.’ A small voice.
    ‘You want anything? Hot chocolate?’
    ‘No, just tell Dad.’
    ‘I will.’
    She always wanted her father. He was her rock. And now he’s gone. I have taken him from her.
    Neil persuaded me not to hang around while he was in having the tests done. He wouldn’t get the results then, and most of the day he’d be sitting about waiting. He
promised to call when he was done.
    It was late afternoon when I picked him up. He didn’t say much about the day, just some quip about hospitals being no place for sick people. He had a little plaster on his arm where
they’d taken the biopsy. They wanted him back in a week’s time for the results. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.
    Did the days go fast or slow? They rippled, concertina-like, altering speed. The sooner the days passed, the sooner we would know.
    That winter I was working on a refurbishment project for a health spa. They were building an extension and it was a good time to revamp their interior, which was looking jaded:
Roman mosaics and friezes, pillars and arched doorways. I’d been playing around with something minimalist, using Japanese influences. Any materials would have to be high spec, to cope with
the heavy traffic and, of course, the effects of steam and chlorine in the pools area, without looking industrial. Calm, comfortable and clean: these were the words I used with the client during my
first presentation.
    The day of