On Tuesday, the mother is sick. She leaves work early, gets the bus home, and goes straight to bed. She is woken by the noise of the children coming home with their father and grandmother. They keep the kids at bay as long as they can, but the baby is fractious and wants a breastfeed and he’s wailing out for it. His grandmother brings him in. He sees his mother and wriggles and squeals, so delighted, so excited that she’s there for him. He tries to launch himself at her, crawling over the bed, tugging at her shirt. The grandmother smiles sympathetically at her daughter and sits down next to her on the bed, as the baby feeds. The mother lies there half asleep and anxious about being sick when there is always so much to do, and the grandmother places a cool and calming hand on her brow. Stroking the head of the young woman as she cradles her youngest baby. The mother notices herself relax, feeling with each caress that some of the stress is being taken away, and being carried back up through the generations.