THE SMALL, SQUARE room is sterile and clinical, with drab, off-white walls and standard, aged, discoloured blinds. The putrid smell of hospital disinfectant and death hangs thick in the air around me. The familiar woman sitting opposite is talking, but I don't hear a word she says, I only see her lips move.

There is a light tap on the door, and Nancy steps inside the room. She pulls up a chair, sits next to me, and wraps a protective arm around my shoulders. I ease into her side and wish she had been there for me when I was growing up. If my own mother had been more like...