Together we’d attended Archie’s funeral, which, despite Nancy’s original grandiose plans, had passed off in the local church in a quiet, dignified fashion, with Curate Leanne at the helm. In retrospect, I wondered if Nancy had been in shock that day with Mum. She certainly looked more upset than I’d ever seen her at the funeral, walking behind the coffin, head bowed, face pale. Dan was obviously there, supporting his mother with his brothers. We’d had another pleasant pub supper too, plus a trip to the local cinema, a sticky carpet joint we remembered of old. And then, all of a sudden, that cosy, comfortable way of life came to an abrupt halt. Because it was suddenly upon us. Something far less pleasant. Michael’s memorial service. In St Luke’s Church, Chelsea. And obviously we went, the children and I. Obviously. How could we not? It would have looked extremely odd not to, the three of us finally decided after some discussion on Zoom. We’d grit our teeth. Pretend there was nothing wrong with commemorating the life of a man like Michael. But I didn’t put my parents through it.

Mum had had a fall a few days earlier: nothing major, but she’d missed her footing on the York stone terrace outside. Now she had a nasty bump on her head and a huge sticking plaster on her elbow. Plus, she was gabbling a bit: stumbling over her words, which she always did when she was anxious. So Dad and I decided they should stay here.

‘Never liked the chap anyway,’ my father remarked as we washed up the breakfast things together, Mum, safely down and breakfasted, but on the sofa with a milky coffee. She was watching Holly Willoughby, whom she adored.

My head whipped round to him. I knew, of course, but it was the first time he’d said it. ‘Oh, it’s lovely to hear you say that, Dad,’ I breathed. ‘Why didn’t you say so, years ago?’

‘I wrote to you, if you recall. Felt that was as far as I could go.’

He folded his tea towel over the Aga rail and shuffled back to Mum with his own coffee. Enough said. And throughout my marriage he’d never said more; never stepped in despite serious provocation: the ghastly letters, the veiled threats about my safety. Neither of them had ever said a word. For fear, no doubt. Just as I, through fear, had said nothing myself. Which of course perpetuates the circle. Vicious, isn’t it?