‘Hmmm.’ I did my best impression of a sleepy, noncommittal mumble, but I’m sure she could hear my heart beating. It seemed to be vibrating my whole pillow.

‘You don’t want to know why?’

‘Are you talking because you have something to say, or because you can’t sleep?’ I didn’t mean it to sound snappy – there’s a certain margin where cruelty bonds with affection in a marriage – but now that we weren’t together, even gentle ribbing came across as barbed.

‘Can it be both?’ The appeal in her voice was clear.

‘Sure.’ I softened. ‘But if I lose a footrace to a serial killer tomorrow because I’ve under-slept, I’m blaming you.’

Her teeth flashed white in the dark. A grin. ‘There he is.’

‘You don’t have to apologise to me, Erin. I shouldn’t have put that pressure on you. I thought you were happy, I thought we’d made the decision to have kids together, but I mustn’t have seen how much I was pushing you into it. I was mad for a long time, but what right do I have over your choices? You shouldn’t have lied, and I wish it was anyone but Michael – I’ll never be past that – but I’ve asked enough of you. I don’t need an apology.’

This was only half true. The real truth was that I didn’t want to have to lie there and listen to her spout excuses. I’d heard them before – in therapy, at home, whispered and yelled, texted and emailed, tear-splattered and hate-fuelled. I thought I’d heard every excuse in every form.

Then she surprised me by saying, ‘I killed my mother.’

CHAPTER 31

The words were like a bomb in the small room. I didn’t know what to say to her confession. I knew her dad had raised her – it was one of the reasons we’d understood each other when we started dating – but Erin had told me her mother’s death had been from an illness when she was young.

‘She died giving birth to me.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘You’re about to tell me it’s not my fault, but it doesn’t matter. It’s what my father told me, and I believed it. Still do. I killed her. I know, it happens. I know it’s not my fault. That’s why I started telling people it was cancer, because people just say, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” instead of all that other stuff. But my father told me every day growing up, right up until he died, that it was my fault. I always knew he would have traded me for her.’

I’d known her father was abusive, but I’d never known it had been so targeted, filled with such blame and hatred. ‘That’s a horrible thing to say to a child,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know.’