‘No, no . . . I just post cards with his name on the envelope. Inside, I put my address and number in case it makes it to him somehow. Why would I write to him if I hadn’t found him?’

‘Well, it can be cathartic sometimes – to write it all down without giving it to the person. But what does your gut tell you? Do you feel he’s alive?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’

‘Would you rather it that way? That you never know? Say if he’d passed away?’

I pulled my face at the stupidity of the question. ‘Obviously, I’d rather not know.’ My mind changed on the note-taking. It was grating. Intrusive.

‘OK . . . And why is that?’

‘Why on earth would I want to know he’s dead as well?’ I uncrossed my legs, allowing my knees to freely jig up and down.

‘Because you may feel it would be better to have that closure, move on. Let go of the anxiety of never knowing.’

‘Move on? You don’t move on when they die.’ I noticed for the first time how he held his pen awkwardly. Like he hadn’t been corrected at school. It was irritating, and I had the urge to snatch it from his hands and throw it across the room. ‘People need hope, Dr Franco. However small that hope is.’

He removed his glasses and looked right at me. ‘That is . . . That’s very true, Constance.’

I noticed that he glanced over at the clock, and I was relieved. Expecting him to call time.

‘So, going back to your story . . . Do you think we know on the day we die? What about your mum?’

I stood. ‘Can I get more water, please?’

He gestured for me to help myself.

When I reached the cabinet, I remained with my back to him and said, ‘I think she did, yes.’ Staring at the glasses and ornate jug, I had the same urge to pick them up one by one and smash them through the elongated window. I turned around. ‘She was ill. It was obvious. Like it always is with cancer.’ I walked back to my chair and sat, unable to look at him. Aware he’d sensed my angry tone, I focused on one of his certificates on the wall behind his head. ‘She was exhausted . . . could hardly speak, was on loads of drugs.’ He was writing those fucking notes again. Judging.

‘Did she die in hospital?’

‘No . . . no, she didn’t. She was at home.’

‘That must have been hard for you?’

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry. Can we talk about something else?’

He leant forward, making it impossible not to look at him. ‘Constance, often the things we find the most difficult to talk about are the things that talking about can help us with the most.’ I didn’t flinch. Stared him out. He relented, sat back. ‘So, what would you like to talk about?’