'That's OK, it's you I wanted to talk to,' I say.
'Oh?' Mum's tone of polite interest also holds a little flutter of fear.
There's such a big space between us. Was it always there? I try to remember what it was like when I was little, before Nia started, but I can't, not really. Nia makes everything blurry. Maybe that's the point.
I follow Mum into the dining room, which has a different carpet, I see. It has that new carpet smell and hoover lines all over it. Mum owns a battalion of Hoovers: upright for main rooms, little Henry or Henrietta or whatever for the stairs, and a dustbusting handheld thingy for whipping away crumbs after meals.
I sit down at the table and run my fingers over the familiar wooden surface. It's the one thing in the house that never gets upgraded. When I look at it, I see the place where we'd have birthday teas and cake, friends from school gathered round to sing Happy Birthday, back before Nia. But overlaying those memories, like the slides you get in a microscope, are the years of sitting here for hours, mashing food down, while Mum sat with her arms folded, telling me I couldn't get up until I'd finished. And the times that followed, when I realised I could get up without finishing, so I just did. That last morning, before I fell down the stairs at college, when I never even bothered to sit opposite Tammy, in her usual place behind the cornflakes box, and pretend to eat. I remember how I told Mum I'd grab something at college, and the way she nodded and sank into one of the chairs; how she hadn't done her make-up that morning, like she was too tired to bother. Me walking out, smug and triumphant because I'd got away with missing breakfast again. It's all here, at this table, and I can't work out if the heaviness in my chest is homesickness or just memories reaching back towards me.
Mum is bustling about making coffee. She hands a cup to me, black, and I'm sort of touched, until I remember I probably shouldn't be drinking caffeine.
'So … how are you?' she says, and I can see she's bracing herself.
She darts a glance over me, trying to work out how much I weigh. I can't tell from her expression what the conclusion is, apart from that she doesn't look more worried than normal – and that worries me in turn. How big do I look through her eyes?
I lean back, my head resting on the top of one of the stupid high-backed dining-room chairs. They look like they should be in a sixty-foot banqueting hall or something, not a five-bed semi in Illester.
'Ah, good, thanks. I'm good. I'm pregnant, actually.'
Well, that's one way to do it. I didn't mean to blurt it out, but suddenly I realised I couldn't do the small-talk thing. Mum's expression is almost funny, like her brain is going way too fast, then spinning around on itself and finally stopping altogether.
'What?' she says eventually, and I know I've really shocked her this time because she always insists on 'pardon', like the wannabe middle-class person she is.
Come off it, Hedda.
I straighten my face. This isn't funny.
'I'm twenty-five weeks pregnant,' I say, making sure my voice is low and slower than usual.
A great flush suffuses Mum's face, reaching past her pencilled eyebrows and all the way into her highlights.
'You. Are. Joking.' Each word takes her a long time to get out.
'Nuh-uh,' I say. Then I spread my arms out, cock my head to one side and say, 'Surprise, Grandma!'
Mum's face goes redder still, and even I know I've gone too far this time.
Eventually, she pushes a hand against each cheek and says, 'I suppose it's too late to … ?'
'Yes, it's too late, and anyway, I don't want to,' I say, tipping my chin up.
Mum looks to the ceiling for a moment, then speaks, her voice bitter. 'Want. Yes, that's an appropriate word, coming from you. What you want. It is always what you want, or don't want, isn't it? I don't suppose there's a father involved at all?'
'One-night stand.' I give a defiant shrug. 'No idea what his name was.' I squeeze my hands together under the table as I speak, pushing fingertips down hard in the spaces between the tendons, straining to hang on to my 'I don't give a crap' face, until Mum closes her eyes.
'This … this is … I knew you were selfish before, but even I never thought … ' She puts her head into her hands and I wonder whether she's crying.
I reach one hand towards her and let it fall on to the table. 'Come on, Mum,' I say, but then don't know what else to add.
She snaps her head back up. 'Do you have any idea – any idea at all – what you've done? How on earth do you think you can look after a baby? Just look at you!' She circles my wrist with her fingers, then lets it drop.
I make my face a mask.
Mum's eyes narrow. 'You could damage it, you know. What right do you have to do that to an innocent child?'