A Gift from the Comfort Food Café: Celebrate Christmas in the cosy village of Budbury with the most heartwarming read of 2018!

I think I have to start making more of an effort to change that. To believe that I am welcome, that these people like me, and that every favour doesn’t make me a burden or leave me with a debt they’ll demand to be repaid.

So, instead of doing my normal mad dash over to the cottage to act apologetically about ever having gone to work at all, I head to the café. I check my phone as I go, and see a text from my mum: ‘Sorry not answering, love. Bit busy. Don’t worry about me. See you soon.’

I tap out a quick reply, asking her if she’s sure she’s all right, and try not to worry too much. I remind myself that my mother is not exactly averse to creating a little drama around herself, and that maybe it’s just because I haven’t paid her enough attention recently.

And I haven’t, really, I know that – I’ve been busy and haven’t spoken to her as much as I should. I haven’t been back to visit in a couple of months either. I feel bad about that, now. I mean, she can be a bit of a nightmare, but can’t we all, in our own way? She’s still my mum, and I still love her. I’m sure she’s always done her best.

I try not to hold onto anger about the way I grew up, because it does me no good at all. Wishing it had been different won’t make it different. Fantasising about a childhood where my family was happy doesn’t create an alternative reality. It all happened, it all had an effect, and none of it can be changed – all I can change is the way I build my own life, not the way my parents built theirs.

I shake my head as I climb the path up the side of the hill that leads to the café, and put my phone away. Thoughts for another time. Or not. Mum says not to worry – so I need to try not to worry.

After I make my way under the wrought-iron archway and into the garden, I pause for a moment and look out at the bay. It’s still drizzling, and the sky is fifty shades of grey, but the sun is trying desperately to break through the clouds. It’s a strange and beautiful effect: dark clouds, dark sky, with one or two dazzling fingers of gold poking through to cast yellow streams down onto the waves, where they shimmer and shine as the water rolls inland.

There are dog walkers down there on the beach, and a couple of mums with toddlers wrapped up so well they look like fat eggs you could roll down a hill, and someone who appears to be fossil-hunting. Out of season, quiet, but still stunningly beautiful. In summer, it’s completely different – the café is bustling, the beach is full, the sounds are a blend of squealing kids and the ice cream van’s tune and the chatter and buzz of holiday fun.

I reluctantly turn away from the view and walk towards the café. It’s after three now, and as I’d suspected, the only people left there are the regulars. I pause and look through the windows. The light outside is dim and grey, so the contrast is stark: the café is vivid and warm and bright, its fairy lights shining, the glass panes slightly steamed up.

I can see a few tables pulled together to form one big, haphazardly assembled mega-table, and the ladies arranged around it. Cherie has her head thrown back in laughter; Becca has Little Edie on her lap; Zoe has a paperback in her hands, and Willow is doing some kind of mime to entertain them.

They look perfectly relaxed. Perfectly comfortable. Perfectly terrifying.

I take a deep breath, and push open the door. They all turn and look at me, and I see Cherie’s eyes widen in surprise. I get that feeling, the one I’m way too familiar with: the feeling that I’ve walked into a room where I’m not welcome. Where I’m interrupting something.

‘Come on in then!’ bellows Cherie, waving at me. ‘And don’t let the weather come with you!’

I nod and shut the door – I hadn’t even noticed I’d been holding it open, as though clinging to the option of running away, back down the hill.

By the time I’ve crossed the room, Willow has pulled an extra chair over for me, and headed to the kitchen to get me a coffee from the ancient machine. I hear it hiss and spit as I sit down, smiling politely, wondering what on earth I’m going to talk about now I’m here.

‘We were just discussing the relative feminist merits of Disney princesses,’ says Zoe, her ginger curls pulled up into a cascade of fire on top of her head.

‘Oh … well. Maybe Mulan?’