It’s one of her new favourite words, and also appropriate as we make our way up the long private driveway.

The communal gardens are immaculate, with a series of little fountains and subtle lighting amongst the pretty, colour-coordinated flower beds. The reception looks like a five-star hotel, and the facilities include a choice of restaurants, a library, a swimming pool, and even a spa. Mum has her own ground-floor apartment and, most importantly, she has her own private garden, with a view of Blackdown Woods. Albeit from the other side of the valley.

‘Hello, Mum,’ I say, holding her close, breathing in the smell of her familiar perfume.

She looks well and has put on a bit of weight. I can see that she has had her hair done, and her clothes are clean and ironed just like they always used to be. Someone else cleans for her now, something I still don’t think she’s gotten used to. So many years of letting herself in to other people’s houses, to do their dirty work while they were out doing something else. I found a drawer full of keys in her old bedroom when I was clearing out her home; she must have had one for almost every house in the village.

Someone else pops by to give her medication twice a day now too, although I’m not convinced she always takes it. There are emergency buttons and cords in every room, so that if she feels unwell, or needs anything at all, help is close by. She can choose to eat in the restaurant, or they deliver fresh, organic food along with recipe cards for her to cook herself. Mum took some convincing, and it’s obvious she misses her beloved vegetable garden, but I think she’s adjusting to her new life well. Albeit slowly.

The apartment is decorated in neutral tones and it’s all very minimal, but I can see some of her old familiar things from home. There are pictures of me when I was fifteen for starters, but also a more recent framed photo of me, Jack, and Olivia, which makes me happy. She isn’t holding on to that teenage version of me anymore; she sees me as I am today and seems to love me anyway. Parents spend their youth trying to understand their children, children spend their adulthood trying to understand their parents.

My mother insists on making us some tea. She disappears into her kitchen and we hear her opening the cupboards and drawers. I enjoy the familiar sound of cups being put on saucers, and metal teaspoons on china. We wait for her old-fashioned kettle to boil on the stove, and I experience a brief involuntary shudder when it screams.

She shuffles back in a few moments later, a pretty silver tray rattling in her shaky fingers. I notice that she has bought some organic honey in a squeezable bottle, as well as a jug of milk and bowl of sugar. It makes me smile. She’s doing well, but still has moments of confusion.

‘The bees are alive!’ squeals Olivia, on seeing the honey. We’ve been reading Winnie-the-Pooh stories to her, and she’s become a little obsessed with the stuff. ‘Your bees live with us in London now, Nanny Andrews, and they came out of the hive today!’ she says, beaming at my mother.

‘They survived the trip?’ Mum asks, staring at me.

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Did they find the knife inside the hive?’ she asks.

I hid it there after leaving the hospital; I didn’t know what to do with it. I should have known she would find it – she’s the only person I know crazy enough to stick their hand in a hive. Luckily everyone else presumes it’s the dementia talking.

I smile and pick up the knife on the table to cut the cake we bought.

‘No, Mum, it’s here, see? Bees don’t need knives to spread the honey, they can do that all by themselves. Now, who wants a slice of chocolate cake?’ I ask, starting to unwrap the big white box from the bakery.

‘Me!’ shouts Olivia.

Mum asks for the tiniest sliver of chocolate sponge, and I can tell that she doesn’t really want to eat it. I should have taken it out of the box, and pretended to have baked it myself, so she wouldn’t have thought it was shop-bought and filled with poisonous additives.

‘The woman with the ponytail came to see me again,’ she says, putting down her fork.

My own hovers in mid-air while I try not to look as worried as I feel.

‘Do you mean Priya? The detective?’ I ask.

‘Yes. She likes to ask me questions.’

‘Why would Priya be visiting Mum?’ I ask Jack, and he shrugs, oblivious to my concern.

‘She’s a nice person. Probably just wants to check up on you, make sure you’re doing OK after everything that happened,’ he says.

‘I’m sure that’s all it is,’ I agree, trying to reassure her.

I can tell she doesn’t believe me. I’m not sure I do either.

Mum smiles and puts down the uneaten cake, then takes a sip of her tea instead, before adding another squeeze of honey to her cup.

‘Don’t you worry about me, I can take care of myself.’

There are at least two sides to every story; yours and mine, ours and theirs, his and hers.

I always prefer my own.

But maybe it’s for the best that no one else ever knows the truth about what happened. I doubt they would believe me anyway. Nobody suspects a little old lady with dementia of killing people.

I’ve never really had a problem with my memory. If there are things I’ve forgotten over the years, it’s because I chose to forget them. But the cancer diagnosis was real. Which meant I would be leaving that house one way or another, and someone else would move in and find my past mistakes buried in the garden.

The idea of people knowing the truth about what I did to my husband all those years ago was almost too much to bear. Bad stories about people stick like honey, and I didn’t want to be remembered that way. Most of my life was spent being and doing good. He was a violent man, and I’ve always thought of it as self-defence, not murder. Of course I wish things could have been different, but regret is not the same as an apology. I am not sorry for what I did, I just never wanted anyone to find out.

Burying my husband beneath the vegetable patch seemed like such a clever idea. It was somewhere I thought nobody would ever think to look. I found his wedding ring one day, while digging up potatoes. He was the real reason I could never leave that house, but I know Anna has taken care of things for me now.

For years, I thought she left home when she was sixteen because, deep down, she knew what I had done. Anna found me covered in blood, as well as mud from the garden on the afternoon I killed him. She decided to leave Blackdown as soon as she finished school the following year, and rarely came back. I thought it was my fault; that she hated me for taking her father away from her.

I made myself content with looking at old photos of my only child, then a few years later, made do with watching her on my TV screen, reading the news. She looked so happy and healthy without me in her life. So I accepted the rare visits and infrequent phone calls, grateful whenever she did get in touch.

It was Jack’s idea to let me look after Charlotte for the night, so that he could take Anna out for her birthday. I’d hardly spent any time at all with my baby granddaughter, so I was delighted when Anna agreed to it. I thought it might bring us closer together; Anna having a daughter of her own, and knowing how it feels to be a mother. But Charlotte died. It wasn’t my fault, but it felt like she blamed me anyway.

The drinking started again after that. It numbed my pain. When people in town confused me being drunk with me having dementia, I had an idea. A good one. It brought Jack back into my life, which I hoped would mean Anna would come home out of pity too. All I had to do was pretend to be a bit forgetful, and wander the streets a few times in my nightdress. Jack insisted on me seeing a doctor. That’s the only reason I found out about the cancer, not that I told him or anyone else the truth about that.