I opened the wardrobe, still mulling over these questions in an unhurried way. I began pulling out old clothes, ones that I knew I would never wear again, and bagging them up. My leg was feeling a lot better and I was able to put a little weight on it, was limping about with no crutch, though it was still something of a struggle to lug bags around. By the time I’d half-emptied the wardrobe I was sweating, and I sat down on the edge of the bed to catch my breath.

I stared into the darkness of the wardrobe. There was a niggle at the back of my mind: something was missing, or different. I got up and peered inside, realising what it was.

When I’d last sorted out the flat, shortly after splitting from Harriet, I’d put all of my memorabilia of our relationship – photos, cards, notes and postcards – into a large reinforced paper bag. This bag already contained mementoes of my previous relationships, such as they were, along with a load of other bits and pieces that I didn’t want to throw away – fliers from university nights, a couple of mysterious Valentine’s cards whose sender had never revealed herself, my degree certificate and some silly letters that Tilly had written to me while I was at college.

Beneath all this, in a bag within the bag, were other personal treasures. These were items that were too painful for me to have on display, even though the rational, lucid part of me knew it would be better, healthier if they were out there. These items included photographs of my mum, with her long red hair, and dad, mainly during his eighties fashion-disaster period, when he’d sported a moustache and glasses with oversized frames. There were family pictures too: the four of us, Tilly and me as little kids, on holiday on a beach somewhere, or with our dog, Benji, a cocker spaniel who had died when I was twelve.

Along with the photos, there were other souvenirs of my parents’ lives. Their wedding certificate (Tilly had the rings and the photo album). Cards that my mum had written to me when I was too young to read, telling me how much she loved me, how proud she was of her only son. Most precious of all, there was my baby book, in which she had recorded not just the basic information like my birth weight and time but her feelings upon meeting me, her firstborn. Stuck into this book was a picture of her and my dad holding me when I was a couple of hours old. My face was pink and puffy but they were gazing at me like I was the most beautiful thing on earth.

Although Tilly had her own mementoes, every trace of my parents that I owned was in this bag.

It was missing.