The man stumbled off the gravelled path, tried to stabilise himself on the bins and fell sideward. Adaline took three steps towards him, offering out a hand. The sight of the five-week-old acrylic nails, too long and untidy, caught her off guard almost as much as the stranger's accident. His hands felt warm in her own as he pulled himself to his feet. Crimson streaked his cheeks. With lowered eyes, he mumbled an apology before turning his back on her. He quickly re-entered her mother's house, not stopping to check if Adaline was following.

Stepping into the porch, Adaline began to feel at ease. The champagne-coloured walls hadn't changed at all since she was a teenager. A projector of their familial memories scattered over the walls in black frames. Her elder brother, with the same green eyes as her father, smiling at an unseen camera, proudly displaying his diploma. Adaline with the ghastly bob that all her friends had worn, wearing a flowing navy dress at her year eleven prom, next to her childhood best friend. She smiled.

Life had been good for the most part growing up in her parents' household. They'd had many summers holed up in caravans, spending untold amounts of money at the arcades hoping to win a cheap nick knack to commemorate their time together. She chuckled slightly, remembering the hideous stuffed rabbit her father had won for her when she was fifteen. The eyes had been questionable, crudely sewn onto the uncomfortably patchy fur. She'd hated that thing, had crammed it into the bottom of her wardrobe swearing to never let a soul see it.

She wished she still had the teddy when her father passed not too many years later. He hadn't been the most affectionate of men and so sentimental gifts were few and far between. Shaking her head, she scolds herself. No use crying over what could have been.

Voices in the living room intruded on her thoughts. Her mother's voice, not quite as silky as it had been in her youth, now had a tremor to it that Adaline had failed to notice a week before when the pair had their regular mother daughter lunch and shopping date. Leaning against the doorframe, she cleared her throat and smiles.

Her mother's head whipped around, eyes wide; it took only a second before her face lit up and she began to stand, shakily holding onto the arm of the black sofa as she does so. Her face, usually made up with rouged cheeks and the MAC Velvet Teddy lipstick that always seemed to seep into the crevices around her mouth, was plain. Adaline could swear her mother's wrinkles had etched further into her fair skin; skin that seemed to be slightly translucent almost overnight.

In such a brief space of time, her mother had become so frail and almost unrecognisable to Adaline. She wondered how she hadn't noticed the subtle changes. Perhaps her grief had truly blinded her to reality, to the fact the world continued to move, unchanged by the loss of one of its inhabitants.

"Adaline! You're here! Let me put the kettle on. You sit yourself down darling," she kissed her daughter's forehead before nuzzling her towards the sofa.

Her movements were slow, almost calculated, as though she were terrified the slightest breeze may tip her over. Adaline gave a small smile, knowing better than to offer to take over. Her mother was a stubborn woman, a trait her daughter had inherited, and so very proud. She wouldn't be seen dead sitting around when she had company to host for, even if that company had spent nine months curled next to her heart.

The sound of metal tapping on porcelain filled the awkward silence between Adaline and the man standing rigidly across the room. Taking a deep breath, Adaline clapped her hands together before rubbing them on her legs. She looked around the room, desperate to not make eye contact with the stranger whose gaze had not wandered from her since she entered the room.

The living room was cosy, trinkets dotted about on walnut shelves; a family picture taken the year before her father passed, a photograph of a fox cub that Adaline had taken herself. She'd spent four hours in the freezing cold with only an umbrella to shelter herself and her equipment from the rain to capture the image. Her breath still caught as it did when the infant slowly emerged from the safety of its den, sniffing the air before clambering out fully. She'd felt so alive that day. So free. It was part of why she had loved being behind a camera so much; it gave her a sense of empowerment she had never felt before.

Her father's ashes lay to rest on the mantelpiece, allowing him to continue watching over the wife he adored, a single frame on either side containing laughing memories of him with his children. Adaline closed her eyes, allowing herself to listen to the sound of his laughter, the deep belly laugh she and her brother had often teased him for. Their mother had playfully scolded them, telling them it wasn't their father's fault, that her cooking had given his gut life enough to sing. The tinkle of mug against mug jolted her from her thoughts.

"Here we go, careful it's hot," her mother said, laying the tray onto the coffee table before her.

She smoothed her blouse, glancing at her daughter before sitting next to her and clasping Adaline's hands in her own. Wrinkles danced on her face as she beamed, pulling Adaline in for a deep hug. The scent of lavender tickled Adaline's nostrils, an aroma that always reminded her of home and love.

Her shoulders bounced as she sobbed into her mother's arms, just as she had done on numerous occasions in her life. Her mother had always been her comfort, her safety net; she couldn't accept her mother was to die. She knew it would happen, eventually. Death was a welcomed friend among the elderly she knew, but she hadn't expected her mother to be holding hands with him just yet. In her mind, her mother was still the forty something woman singing to herself as she busied around with daily chores and cooking dinner for her and her brother – an event that almost always ended with squabbling over who was to do the dishes.

"I see you've met Elliot; he's been wonderful to me over the last few months"

Adaline glances sideways at the man. He hadn't moved from his spot against the wall. His gaze drops as he catches her eye, baffling Adaline. For a palliative care giver, he seemed incredibly shy and uncommunicative towards his patient's family. She'd expected some sort of discussion about her mother's health and the care she needed. The care Adaline was determined to provide personally. He cleared his throat, still refusing to make eye contact.

"Erm. Yeah, yeah, we've met. Years ago, actually," he shuffled on his feet before excusing himself. Nature calls, he claimed.

Increasingly confused by the situation, Adaline watched him skulk away, as though he'd rather be anywhere but in a room with her. Oblivious to Elliot's obvious discomfort, her mother handed over a steaming cup and continues.

"Such a lovely gentleman, always on time and so chatty, you know. An absolute delight,"

Adaline snorted into her cup. Chatty? Delight? She's barely heard a word from the man in the fifteen minutes she's been there. Deciding not to press matters around the stranger further, she smiled sadly at her mother.

"Mum, why didn't you tell me you were so unwell? How long have you known?"

Gently placing her own mug back onto the tray, her mother waved in the air. She shifted away from her daughter and busied herself with the fabric on her skirt, a habit Adaline knew well meant her mother was thinking of something to say, an excuse to make. She shook her head before opening her mouth to speak.

"I've known for a while now, love; I didn't want to burden you with my troubles. Not when you and Christopher were trying so hard to become parents. It would have been cruel. And when poor Christopher was taken from us, well, I just couldn't tell you, could I? You needed me more than I needed you," her eyes teemed as she turned her head back to Adaline.

Stroking her mother's hand, Adaline smiled half-heartedly. She could hardly argue with her mother's logic, not when her mother had always put her children before herself. Never giving her wants or needs a second look should they interfere with the school trips or new shoes her children needed. Even when Adaline's father had succumbed to a stroke, her mother had put Adaline and her brother's grief before her own, cradling them both until their misery carried them off to sleep. They had never seen her cry, had never seen her abandon the housework, had never seen her stare blankly into the mirror looking for hints of her husband getting ready for his daily routine.

"Well, I'm here now, and I'm staying for as long as you need me. Let me pop my suitcase in the spare room, then how about I make us a nice lunch, for old times' sake?"

Her mother nodded, resting her head in her hand. Not wanting to be away for too long, Adaline hurried upstairs to the spare room that had once been hers. Throwing her suitcase onto the double bed, freshly made that morning, she turned, knocking into Elliot as she did so.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry-" she started before shock hit her.

Standing this close to Elliot, she began to recognise him, to recognise the dimple in his left chin, the crooked tooth in his smile, the almost black eyes that stared back at her in shock. It couldn't be, surely?

"Elliot Wilson?" she stuttered, before collapsing against the wall, hand on her chest.