So I’ve been thinking, it might be fun to play a game.

Sure, let’s play the Shut Up game.

You go first.

*Dies laughing* I meant a guessing game.

Okay.

Steady there, hold back that enthusiasm now. I’ll go first, is your favourite colour black?

No, obviously. Up your game!

Pink?

Everyday sexism.

So that’s a no then?

It’s green, the colour of the Mediterranean Sea. I bet yours is black.

How did you know? You’re like Yoda. The force is strong with this one.

You were dressed head to toe in black on the ferry. And don’t go all Star Wars on me. I won’t get half the references because I’ve only seen The Force Awakens.

You need to go back to the start, I can’t believe your dad hasn’t given you a proper film education. What’s your man playing at?

I haven’t got a dad. And again, ever heard of Everyday Sexism? Maybe my mum is a Star Wars fan.

Shite. Sorry. I mean, about your da.

Thanks. And fyi my mum hates Star Wars.

So… what are you doing at work?

Emptying bedpans.

Jayziz, sounds like you’re right up Shit Street. All those germs. You can keep your piss and puke and pans.

Jokes. Lots of washing hands and cleaning gel. I smell like a doctor’s surgery, not a whiff of wee.

I’m glad my phone doesn’t have scratch and sniff ;)

I don’t think you’re supposed to insult someone you’re trying to play games with.

Are we playing games here? Is that what we’re doing? C’mere then so I can sniff you down the phone!

Any more talk of sniffing or scratching I’ll turn my phone off.

Alright, I’ll try and find me manners. God you’re stubborn.

I’m not stubborn. I just don’t respond well when people tell me what to do.

It’s as if you’ve a mind of your own. Next you’ll be telling me you’re one of those raging lady feminists.

WE DON’T RAGE! And we’re women not ladies.

Stop shouting Miss Caps Lock. I can hear you all the way from Dublin.

It’s Ms Caps Lock to you, Dublin.

You do know I don’t actually live in Dublin. I live on a farm. So really you should be calling me Clogherhead. Or y’know, Riley’s fine.

‘You’re always on that thing!’ Mum says, as she switches the windscreen wipers on again. The rain keeps stopping and starting – another classic British summer. ‘Put the radio on, love,’ she suggests. I stop texting Mr Clogherhead – whatever that means – and put my phone away. ‘How do you and Callie not run out of things to talk about? You’re always texting each other,’ she says longingly, as if she’s missing out on something. The Beatles are on the radio and she hums along, but I can tell she’s building to something.

‘What do you want to talk about then, Mum?’ I prompt. She shrugs her shoulders and I feel like the parent. ‘I heard you on the phone last night to Nonno, by the way.’ I wait.

‘You shouldn’t be eavesdropping…’ she starts, then stops and looks guilty, realising I’ve heard what she told him.

‘I wouldn’t need to eavesdrop if you ever talked to me.’

‘Don’t be so over the top,’ she says, eyes still firmly on the road ahead.

‘Why did you tell him that he can’t stay with us? He could stay in the spare room if we cleared it out. We need to go through Dad’s stuff anyway. It can’t sit in there forever.’ I’ve been wanting to suggest this for months. Nonno’s choir tour is the perfect excuse.

I hate the spare room. It used to be Dad’s music room but now I call it ‘the spare room’ as if it’s nothing to do with him anymore. It’s become a dumping ground for boxes full of him: boxes of papers, books, letters, sheet music and clothes that used to smell like him. It just smells of cardboard and silence now. I didn’t know silence could smell.

‘No,’ she says quietly, shaking her head. Her hands are clutching the steering wheel. Her wedding ring is too loose for her these days and she twiddles it round and round with her thumb. I wonder if she’ll ever take it off. ‘I can’t face him, yet. We’ve only just started talking again,’ she confesses.

‘But wouldn’t it help if he came to stay? Wouldn’t that make things better between you?’ I ask.

‘No. He’ll remind me of your dad and I can’t cope with that. Not yet. Hope, don’t push me on this. Nonno and I didn’t part well, some of the things I said… Maybe we could go out there next summer?’ she offers, but we both know we won’t. I don’t think she’ll ever go back to Italy, not even to visit Dad’s grave. I can’t believe I still haven’t seen Dad’s grave. It feels wrong.

‘But Nonno wants to come now, he’s already bought his ticket. He skyped me. He’ll only be staying with us a night or two at a time. His choir are performing across the country on this tour, not just Birmingham and Cardiff. I need to see him and not on a screen,’ I admit. I’ve missed him, it’s nearly been a year.

‘Oh,’ she replies, looking at me quickly. ‘Sorry.’

‘I don’t want you to be sorry, Mum. I want you to do something. Go somewhere, make a decision, come up with a plan.’ I wish I could take my own advice.

‘Can we talk about this over the weekend? It’s been a long week and I’d just like to get through this traffic, okay?’

Before I can answer, she switches radio channels to the news. A report about how five times more money is spent on studying the causes of erectile dysfunction than on PMS gets my attention straight away – clearly penises matter more than periods. I watch Mum to see if she’s listening. This might be a way into the other conversation we need to have, the one where I tell her what’s actually going on with me, but she’s totally tuned out. I open my mouth then close it again. This could have been a moment, the moment, but what chance do I stand when even a discussion about erections, or the lack of, doesn’t create an awkward mother-daughter moment? She’s so wrapped up in getting on and getting through that she can’t see what’s really going on.

‘Are you listening to this?’ I ask. She mumbles something about a road diversion. I give up. I guess it’s easier this way because if she can’t talk to me about her stuff then I don’t have to talk about mine. I don’t need to tell to her that my monthly calendar is divided up into some kind of Jekyll and Hyde before and after experience. That there’s something really wrong with me and it’s been getting worse every month. Even thinking this sentence in my head terrifies me.

No wonder I can’t say it out loud.