Follow Me Home by Cathy Woodman

curtain, the plastic strips clattering softly as they fall back into place. Now I know why she keeps it up all year round even when there are no flies. It’s to provide her with cover.
    â€˜Because out of sight is out of mind. It’s time you forgot about Paul and moved on with your life.’
    â€˜He’s a friend,’ I point out.
    â€˜And ex-husband. What are his motives for popping up every five minutes, texting you and book-facing you all the time?’
    â€˜It’s called Facebook.’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that he makes you unhappy.’ Before I can open my mouth to argue, Gran continues, ‘I’ve seen your face when you look at your mobile and find you haven’t had a text from him for two or three days. I can’t help worrying that you’re still in love with him.’
    â€˜I’m not. At least, I don’t think I am. I mean, when I see him, I find myself remembering the good times, and it makes me feel a little sad, that’s all.’
    Gran shakes her head as if she doesn’t believe me, but how can she possibly know how I feel about Paul when I don’t know myself? Can I honestly state that I no longer love him and that I’ve moved on? Perhaps now I’m getting my mojo back, it’s time I thought about dating again, maybe having a light-hearted fling to take my mind off him and help me get back to my old self. I could do with having some passion and excitement in my life.
    â€˜Look at the time,’ Gran exclaims. ‘You go on up to the farm and help Emily get dinner on.’ She means lunch. ‘I love Sunday dinners with the family.’
    â€˜Mum’s picking you up at one.’
    â€˜There’s no need to keep reminding me. Go on, off you go.’
    I take the profiteroles, still warm in a tin, pins a pot of cream and chocolate for the sauce, up to the farm, where Emily, dressed in trackies, is frantically trying to peel potatoes with Daisy in one arm and Poppy ‘helping’. She smiles wearily and I wonder if we should all have descended on her like this so soon after she’s given birth. It’s only been a couple of weeks, after all.
    Poppy stands on a chair and drops peeled potatoes into a saucepan on the floor from a great height.
    â€˜Splosh.’ She grins at me through her curls when I walk in.‘I’m making a mess.’
    â€˜So I see. Emily, let me have the peeler.’
    â€˜Oh no, you can spend some quality time with Daisy.’ She hands me the baby who takes one look at me and bursts into tears.
    â€˜Oh, Daisy,’ I coo as I hold her close. ‘That’s no way to greet your auntie.’
    â€˜She’s teething unusually early, just like Poppy did,’ Emily explains. ‘Actually, she’s driving me mad because I can’t put her down and I’ve got all these veg to prepare. I feel like I’m having a meltdown.’
    â€˜Mum said we should have had lunch with her and Dad at their house. It’s too much for you.’ I rock Daisy gently, wiping her cheek with the corner of her blanket. ‘There, there, that’s better.’
    â€˜Are you talking to me or Daisy?’ Emily chuckles in spite of everything. ‘OMG, I’m cackling like a madwoman. Poppy, can you leave that now and feed the lamb instead? There’s a bottle in the fridge. He can have it cold. Remember to use Larry’s bottle, not Daisy’s this time.’
    Poppy clambers down from the chair, hauls the fridge door open and stares at the array of bottles on the shelf.
    â€˜Which one, Mummy?’
    â€˜That one with the blue top.’
    â€˜Which blue top?’
    â€˜There is only one.’ Emily runs wet hands through her hair as I take the bottle out for Poppy. ‘Sometimes I think it’s easier to do everything yourself.’
    Poppy heads out to the utility room to feed the lamb, which I notice is confined to an area