She hadn't been in this room – at least, not since it happened. But she was proud to say that it wasn't remotely close to Christmas, or Ellie's birthday – and in fact they might've overlooked today entirely had they had the chance – but yet here she was, staring at the sad pine door with sad eyes that were just watering because of the skylights, anyway. She hoped Vanish would work on three year-old stains.

She sat down on the edge of a small chest of drawers that had been adorned with an embroidered tablecloth, smoothing out the creases in her smart leather skirt with her unmanicured hands. She had never been one for clichés – at least, not since it happened, and that was the problem with the footprints. Nobody had noticed them - nobody went in there, not after she'd explained to whatever nosy party guest whose room that had been. They would apologise with a crude display of sympathy that meant nothing to her and usually included how beautiful Ellie had been, and how I just couldn't stop smiling when I first saw her, and then how sad we were when we got the news.

It was understandable, of course. She'd been so simple-minded about children. It was hard not to succumb to naïveté with a newborn in your arms. And so followed the angel costumes, the tiny ballet shoes, and the chart-your-baby book that they might've looked over in the future, mother and daughter, clichéd pictures lighting up clichéd hearts. It had finished twenty pages in, leaving fifty pages blank, and she cursed herself for being so sure she would finish it, just because everyone else had finished theirs. They had paint-footprints on their carpets, too, dangerous reminders of previous lives that she hated now, because what's the point in footprints if nobody owns the feet.

When Ellie had been born people had been understandably shocked, because in her childhood she'd fantasised about being smart, and you could play families or doctors in the playground, but not both, and how would she manage? But she'd battled on through, her and Ellie vs. The World, and proved them wrong by buying a beautiful penthouse in the middle of the city her family loved, but what was that worth now? She hadn't loved anything (or anyone) for a long time now – at least, not since it happened. She hadn't loved the tiny gravestone in a Catholic church with an old and bitter vicar, and she hadn't loved late-night calls from friends and families, and she hadn't loved cleaning out the room she sat in front of now of pocket-size duvets and beautifully carved cots and everything apart from the footprints, mascara tears running down her face.

Her daughter's first word had been Mummy, she remembers, and her heart had swollen with pride as she stared down at the wide green eyes and rosy cheeks she'd fallen in love with, angelic blonde hair plastered across her head like Jesus in the manger, and they had simultaneously agreed then to never let each other go, because as long as they loved each other they shouldn't care about other people. She didn't care how much of her money was going towards Calpol, or how throaty and suffocated Ellie sounded, they were in it together.

In lonely, saddened hindsight, she should've cared more.

She wouldn't wait any longer, getting up from the chest of drawers with Vanish in hand. She'd had sleepless nights for too long now, and when she wasn't sleeping she was dreaming about them, tiny legacies of a tiny life – more tiny than anyone could ever imagine – and that was why she wanted them gone, so her classy new rich friends could sit down and giggle and talk about husbands and properties in the continent and keen-wa and not worry about who had sat down before.

She turned her head to look down the corridor and met eyes with her glassy reflection in the large apartment window, grimacing at the slim body and immaculate blonde hair she had so proudly showed off before Ellie but was now useless to her, just like the penthouse – that skyline had always made her emotional and this was no exception, hazy black obelisks towering up into blacker heavens up above her, and maybe Ellie was watching her now, four years on, a sad woman with sad dreams about those damned footprints.

She opened the door, and it was just as she'd expected; the same whitewashed walls, flocculent Greek rug and chic ceiling tiles, exactly as she'd left it.

Then she saw them, like Lilliputian cave-paintings, still recognisable as her daughter's even though the green acrylic had seeped into the ivory carpet with time, and her heart broke for them at that moment, falling hard to the floor as her tears did the same and she cried for Ellie and for love and for broken hearts. She couldn't.

But she had never been one for clichés - at least, not since it happened, and when she came out of the room, six minutes later, the room was spotless.