You choose, David would say. The choice is yours. No one had ever spoken to her like that before, no one had ever asked her to choose. She had been thrilled at what he was offering. He listened to her opinion, which did not need to be the right opinion and the right opinion did not need to be his opinion. She had valued this so much. It had pumped her up and made her radiant, made her voice louder and her chin higher. Looking back now, it seemed such a frivolous victory, such a flimsy version of autonomy and self-importance.

Over the years, David and British society had given the children the same freedoms – they would not be subservient to her as she had been to her parents, they were independent and well rounded. Her daughter could throw away the chance to be a doctor, the doctor Salma wanted her to be because she couldn’t. At home, Salma was no longer a queen who reigned; when she barked orders, she was either ignored or humoured. The pressure was on her all the time to be a supportive, comforting mum. Unconditional love was what was expected. ‘There for them all the time’ and certainly not the boss.

Someone should have warned me, thought Salma, explained to me. But the explanation had always been there. Everything had a price. She had paid with her home country and medical degree. Her position in the world. And now to lose Iman too, who spoke her language, who looked up to her as no one in her household did. Salma moved away from Moni. She fought back the urge to break into a run. She was too young for resignation. A long, heavy midlife looped down ahead of her, complete with health scares and children leaving home, David losing his mother, a smaller car, holidays without the children. I can still get out, there is still time for a fresh start. Admit that I made a mistake, that it was all a mistake, that I am a ghost here, neither necessary nor effective.