There is a cup of something hot bubbling at her elbow and an excess of crumbs scattered across the table. There are dirty clothes draped over the armchairs and rain drooling down the window.

Typical Monday morning.

The crumbs hop onto the floor when she glared at them, then skitters across linoleum and hides under the mothering sleeves or arm-empty jackets. The rain leers at them from outside, wishing it could join in.

She stands to open a window. Raindrops fly in and huddle with the crumbs. They all look so friendly together, rain and crumbs and sleeves, that she smiles. Would her drink like to join as well?

Yes, it would very much.

She pours the hot liquid over the clothes and smiles again to see how eagerly they bond.

“What are you doing?” Emma swoops into the room, gathers up the friends, and flings them into the washing machine. “And why are the windows open? Look at this, mother, she’s made a mess of things again. I told you she needs to be watched all the time. The doctor said not to leave her alone.”

She listens to Emma and mother tsking and thinks of how much fun the new friends will have riding their rollercoaster.