Or a child who might never learn how to live with the truth. A child who might give up.

Susan doesn’t deserve my sympathy now that I know the pain she’s caused. She doesn’t deserve my time. She doesn’t deserve to… I stop myself from finishing what my subconscious has started. Survival is not mine to give or take away.

I pick out my phone to call Mum. Like the night I ended up in Michelle’s bed, I need to offload. I need maternal words of wisdom to calm me down. But as she picks up, I recall this evening’s revelation at her house, and bile rises in my throat as the reality of just how alone I am sinks in. I cancel the call before she knows it’s me. I wonder if he’s there. This new man. This person she can turn to instead of me. Sat in our David’s chair with his feet up, a cuppa, and a total disregard for how things are meant to be. We said it was just us. Who do I have now?

I growl into the steering wheel then launch myself out of the van. A group of girls sit at one of the benches beneath the big, fairy-lit tree after which the pub is named. They huddle from the rain beneath a pub umbrella, smoking fags and messing around. Pushing each other, screeching and generally being stupid. Or having fun. Either or. The grown-up in me knows that I should probably avoid the pub and go straight home. Sleep off the stress so I can deal with this all tomorrow in a better state of mind. The child in me smells hops and the chance for mental obliteration. I fold. One of the girls whistles and shouts at me as I lock up the van. ‘Come on Woods Brothers Plumbing, give us a smile.’

I scowl, head down, not in the mood for games. ‘Your loss!’ she shouts at my retreating back.

The bar isn’t busy, just a few of the regulars dotted about and a small group of guys at the bar, no doubt chatting shit. It’s hot, too hot. I look around for best mate Paul, he’s usually here on a Thursday. There’s no one serving at the bar when I get there. I reach into my pocket for wallet and change whilst I wait.

When I look up again, Michelle is stood at the pumps. Fuck. I don’t need this. I really don’t need this.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

‘I need the money,’ she answers. ‘I was going to tell you, but since you’re avoiding me…’ We stare at each other, both uncertain what to say or do. I kick myself for not doing the right thing in going straight home. Had I done that, I could have avoided this confrontation a little longer. Now’s not the time, yet the sight of her does, in some way, soften the edge of my nerves. If only I could tell her what’s going on. If only I could lie in her arms and ease the pain.