I nod and try to swallow the thick, familiar lump of anguish that lifts to my throat whenever anyone mentions that article.

“I’d forgotten the bit about ‘A parent’s job is to lay the foundations for their child to flourish as much as possible—and sometimes this means making hard decisions, ones we would rather not make, for the child’s happiness.’”

“You memorized it?”

“It almost read like you resented Meg, when all she was doing was her best in really shitty circumstances.”

I nod. I know. I know all of this. I’m glad I’m driving, that I have an excuse to avoid eye contact. My hands have become moist where they grip the steering wheel.

“You’re right. I was angry. I’m not trying to justify anything, but the doctors said Jakey only had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving and my marriage was falling apart. I think I was going through some sort of delayed shock. Ruth and I were barely talking, it was all so painful. I felt like I was losing them both: Ruth and Jakey. So I suppose in some crazy way when I met Simon I felt sorry for him and pissed off that Meg was able to keep Grace so close and Simon so far away.” As I say the words I feel the thudding truth of them. I’d never told anyone that, never even been able to admit it to myself. The ball in my throat softens.

Cara doesn’t say anything for a moment and I panic that I’ve said more than I should. I try to think of a way of making it all sound better, making me sound better.

“I’d always worked for big national papers. If I’d known that article would affect the community in the way it did I would never have sent it to the editor.”

“Well, I suppose the editor shouldn’t have published it, should they?”

I swerve into the slow lane, too close to the front of a truck. The driver beeps but we both ignore him. I glance over at Cara. She’s still looking at me.

“I’ve been looking into being a journalist,” she says, shy suddenly. “I read that the editor is ultimately responsible for what they publish, not the writer.”

Cara’s just said what I’ve never dared say aloud in case it sounded like I was trying to pass the blame on to the young, inexperienced editor of the Cornish Chronicle. But she’s right. Cara turns back to face the road and we’re both silent for a moment before she asks, “Did you ever find out who posted the photo of your son on Facebook?”

My neck prickles as I picture Jakey as he was then; skin translucent, his head hairless, his body so thin he looked like he would break at the slightest touch. He’s smiling in the photo, giving a brave thumbs-up, but he was in Ruth’s arms in tears again straight after it was taken. The image still haunts me. I press my window down and breathe in the highway air. It is acrid and chemical, like sickness, but I breathe it in anyway. I need it to shift the memory of Jakey in his hospital bed. I close my window, clear my throat.