A lot happened over the next year or so. Sylvie became — quite slowly at first — a delightful person, although Sarah and I eventually agreed to separate. We agreed, and then we agreed not to, and then we disagreed completely, although neither of us knew what to do about it, and we continued living together because the alternative seemed too horrible and too complicated. They say babies sense everything, that they are basically psychic, and maybe that’s true, because even at the age of two, Sylvie was still waking five, six, seven times a night. We had tried to move her into her own room, and then we relented and let her come back into ours, so that during those periods when Sarah and I actually slept in the same bed, Sylvie slept between us, like a sacred rock that we worshipped and despised. Some nights, especially during that first year, she wouldn’t sleep at all — none of us would sleep — and we would put her in the car and drive through the empty suburbs, past the same blazing 7-Elevens, the same ugly new apartment blocks.