My mother has seen the world. She has travelled from Alaska to Zanzibar. All I’ve ever seen is Paris and a lake in the South of France. I read books that describe Amsterdam, the Serengeti, the temples at Machu Picchu. I see images of the Australian outback, Las Vegas, Florence, the Caribbean islands, moving silently across the television screen. Polar bears charge through Churchill and seals loll on the beaches of New Zealand as I drive around Bristol.

When Sonja comes back from Estonia, she unpacks her bags laden with sharp vodka and the intricately painted ornaments of her homeland, then pours herself a drink and sits at the huge pine table in the kitchen. I sit across from her, watching her face. We sit there for minutes without speaking. Finally I say, heart thumping, ears crusty, ‘Fm going to leave.’

Sonja’s grey eyes lock on mine. ‘I know.’

‘Im sorry.’

‘So am I.’

‘You’re not surprised?’

‘No.’ She doesn’t cry. She just stares at me. ‘I’ve been waiting for this to happen.’

‘Why?’

‘I always knew it would.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Just because I walked out at Christmas.’ She smiles a twisted smile. ‘No, not because of that. I’ve known for a long time. I’ve known for years.’

‘Why did you stay, then?’

‘Maybe because I hoped it wouldn’t happen.’

‘Are you still seeing him?’

‘Yes.’ She looks away.

It hurts. It shouldn’t because I knew this already but it does. ‘I knew you were.’

Sonja frowns. ‘How? How could you know?’

Because of so many things. The way she looks at me, the way she moves, the silences and the gaps that have yawned open in our lives. ‘Do you remember when I asked at Christmas if you’d slept with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you said no. I was watching you, Sonja. You know how closely I watch when you speak. I saw you were lying.’

‘Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you say something then?’ Her hand trembles as she reaches for her glass.

Why didn’t I? Because right then I wanted her to hold me and fill the space left by the wolf’s breath. I wanted to believe her because I’d felt that I was unravelling. ‘What good would it have done?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I know I’ve been a bastard to live with.’

The two of us sit there at the kitchen table, our hands trembling. We don’t shout, because ours has always been a quiet relationship and we both know better than most that volume has no meaning.

‘When will you go?’ she asks, as I stand up to leave.

‘As soon as I can get a van arranged. Tomorrow, I guess.’

‘Where will you go?’

Twenty years. ‘Thurlestone.’ Twenty years become nothing as I realise it’s none of Sonja’s concern.

‘John, I’m sorry. I’m sorry it all ends like this. It doesn’t seem enough.’

I stop by the door. ‘I have to ask - what is it about disabled men that lights your fire?’