We need to go back to the beginning, though beginning in itself is a relative term – there are many story threads here and each one of them has a beginning – we’ll get to each one of them in turn.

You were chosen for me, and I think of that with a measure of awe now. That a psychotherapist was assigned me and it just happened to be you; it seems almost impossible to grasp that the most important person in my life would be delivered to me by random allocation. Fridays at two, my GP said. Dr Kristina Moss will see you. A very impressive psychotherapist. Fifty minutes.

It was all paid for, all I needed to do was show up.

You know, you fully had me from the very first session. I became yours in a way I’d never been anybody’s before, just by really being seen. Our sessions were my first meeting with being taken seriously and being fully listened to. You were the first person I ever met who offered me an unconditional relationship without judgment. My mother loves me, as we’ve discussed in depth, but her love was always conditional. She drilled into me that I was free to be whatever I wanted, but really, it was only true when I was little enough for her to still believe that I’d want to be like her. She celebrated my achievements, but only when she could take credit for them. She commiserated when I failed, too, but wouldn’t want any credit for that.

You were just there, regardless of what I brought to therapy. You made me feel like there was space for all of me. That it was okay to be sad and angry and empty, that none of that took away from my worth in your eyes. I hadn’t anticipated the effect that would have on me, nor how deep the grief it triggered would be, to realize that I’d never had it before.

I know that to you, I’m nothing. Or at best, I’m a number on a list, just another name in your professional diary. To me, you’re everything. Don’t think that I simply idolize you; I know you better than you think, I see a whole person, and at first it was difficult for me to accept you were actually real, flaws and all. People inevitably change when light is cast upon them; they seldom turn out to be the beautiful, perfect holograms you saw when you first looked. They crumble or grow distorted because nothing in life is pure enough to withstand real scrutiny – people and places and objects equally. Take the supernova. What looks so beautiful, like the moment something precious is created, is actually the moment of violent destruction. Nothing is ever how it looks at first, it’s just how it is, and it was the same with you. And me.