‘You’re not Granddad,’ I shouted. The bowl dropped to the floor. Pasta jolted over the sides onto the carpet. I spat the watery mouthful into it. ‘Why are you always so fucking selfish?’ I said, before running up to my room.

In bed, I chain-smoked. Window open, towel under the door, so it didn’t harm her. Drank half a bottle of old confiscated Martini I kept in my wardrobe. An hour later I heard her slowly climb the stairs. She knocked, whispering my name through the wood. I should have answered. Apologized. But I didn’t. I just listened to her throw up in the toilet before going to bed.

Hours later I still couldn’t sleep. It was nearly two in the morning. My bedroom spun and I focused on the sound of rain falling onto the guttering above my window. It intensified. Became torrential. The blop, blop, blop of the water a torturous punishment. Then without warning, the sky exploded into a storm.

I left my bed and hovered next to hers. Half asleep, she pulled back the covers to expose the empty side of the mattress. I slipped in next to her. Began to pray. The thunder growled, then barked. With eyes still shut, she lifted her arm. I moved under it, nestled in her pit, my hand hugging her swollen belly.

‘The storm’s here because of me. I’m sorry,’ I cried.

She stroked away the hair stuck to my face. ‘God’s not angry at you, baby. You’re angry at God.’

When I woke the next morning, the air smelt fresh and earthy. Everything had reset. I could hear Blondie playing downstairs, so with my boozed brain pulsating against my skull, I threw on my jeans, T-shirt, pumps and headed down.

At the bottom, I watched her beating eggs in a bowl. ‘Come on, I’m making us breakfast,’ she said.

‘But you never make breakfast.’

‘Well, today I am. Today I’m going to be a good mum, do the right thing.’ She smiled and beat to the beat. As she turned towards the cooker, she paused, dropped her head to catch her breath. Perking up again to sing along to ‘Heart of Glass’. ‘This song reminds me of us, Constance.’

We sat and ate our scrambled eggs on toast at the kitchen table to the background of Parallel Lines and talked about the beautiful day that lay ahead.

‘We could go for a walk in the park if you feel strong enough later? The fresh air will do you good.’

She smiled, placed her hand on top of mine. ‘How the fuck did I make you?’ she said.

I cleared away the dishes and thanked her for breakfast.

‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘Sorry for not doing it more often.’

‘My turn tomorrow,’ I said. And as desperate as everything had been the day before, it was now hopeful, lighter. She had her fight back. More than ever.