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Getting anywhere in a wheelchair is not a simple thing.

I offered the driver triple his fare on the app, and he agreed to stop complaining and help me with the chair.

"You're on your own getting to that clinic, then? No one coming with you?" He glanced at me in the mirror. "No parents?"

I didn't answer.

He shook his head and said something under his breath about it being a shame.

When he helped me out at the other end, he handed me a bottle of water without being asked.

In the clinic corridor, I found Bryce and Lily.

He was peeling clementine segments for her. She was wearing a loose cream knit dress, hair falling softly around her face, one hand resting lightly on her stomach. She winced slightly, and he stopped immediately.

"Is something wrong? Are you uncomfortable?"

He had eyes only for her. I was sitting in my wheelchair ten feet away and he didn't notice me.

My mother appeared from the other end of the corridor, fee slip in hand, fussing over Lily — asking whether she wanted shepherd's pie for lunch, whether she'd slept properly, whether the midwife appointment had gone well.

"Diana, you're better to me than my own mum."

"You've been through so much — of course I want to look after you."

I watched them. They looked exactly like a mother and daughter. Like the ones I sometimes saw in supermarkets, easy with each other.

Something loosened in my chest.

I'd always assumed letting go of it would be harder than this.