The telly buzzed quietly in the corner of the room, the screen flickering with a rerun of some daytime quiz show Laura wasn’t really watching. She sat cross-legged on the couch, half-dressed in an old vest top and joggers, eating a Pot Noodle off her lap with a bent fork. The flat smelled faintly of damp clothes and stale smoke, same as always. The ashtray was full, the curtains shut halfway to block out the nosy neighbour’s view. Her phone buzzed, barely heard under the weight of background static.

Text from: CHILD SERVICES — Supervisor Marnie “Hi Laura — just a reminder: Shelly will be arriving in approx. 20 mins. You’ll be meeting at Jubilee Park. I’ll be supervising as normal. See you soon.”

She froze.

For a split second, the fork hung in the air. Then she leapt up — noodles flying, cup toppling onto the filthy carpet — and the mad scramble began.

“Shit—shit—shit—!”

She darted into the bedroom, nearly tripping over a pile of unwashed clothes. Her heart thudded in her chest. It had been two months since the last visit. Two whole months since she’d seen Shelly’s sweet, awkward smile, the way she twisted her sleeves when she was nervous, that shy little stutter Laura used to mimic playfully, just to make her laugh.

She yanked open the drawer where she kept the “good” clothes — meaning, the least stained. A knitted cardigan with fake pearl buttons — not quite cream anymore, more like cigarette yellow. A floral shirt that still smelled faintly like Primark and lavender body spray. A long pleated skirt, navy blue, which gave her a kind of schoolmarm look she thought felt “motherly.”

She wiped her armpits with a wet wipe, then rooted around for her herpes cream, dabbing it quickly around her cracked mouth with the edge of a tissue. It stung. Her eyes — muddy brown, ringed with shadows and the fine spiderwebs of sleepless nights — looked back at her in the spotted mirror, wide and jittery.

Laura brushed out her hair, long and knotted, dry at the ends from too many cheap dyes. She let it fall loose down her back — it hid the rash on her neck, and she thought maybe it made her look softer. Nicer. Like a mum.

She slapped on foundation — too pale, a brand she’d nicked — and drew on her brows with a pencil so blunt it was practically dust. She scrubbed the nicotine stains from her fingers with an old toothbrush, sprayed the air with Febreze, and lit a scented candle she’d been saving for “occasions.”

The flat was still a dump, no hiding that. She couldn’t scrub out the rat smell or fix the black mould crawling behind the fridge. But she could brush her teeth. She could spray perfume on her wrists. She could show up.

Her hands trembled as she zipped up her boots. Not the heeled ones — flats. Safer for walking across the grass in Jubilee Park.

As she grabbed her coat, she glanced at the folded letter still sitting on the sideboard. One she’d written for Shelly last week but hadn’t sent.

"You’re my best thing, Shell. I don’t care what they say about me. I’ll always love you. One day, it’ll be different. Better. I’ll be better."

She stuffed it in her pocket.

Then she left the flat, cardigan buttoned all the way up, eyes wide, face cracked with nerves, walking fast toward a little patch of park — and the only person in the world who still called her Mummy.