FRIDA visited her parents once a month, usually staying a night or two. On this latest occasion, they hugged her at the door, twinkle-eyed, absurdly delighted to see her, as usual. After a cup of tea and a chat that skirted the usual pressure points—‘Seeing anyone, love?’, ‘Remember Janelle? Pregnant again!’—she ended up in her old room, surrounded by the artefacts of her youth. If only it created a cocoon of comfort. Instead, Frida saw the stuffed toys, the Sweet Valley High books, the Nirvana posters, even her parents’ enduring love, as a rebuke for the life she wasn’t living.