The old Jason brought the old me back to life. I felt less alone than I had done in the early months because we were properly sharing childcare duties. I found myself drawing again, and not only for work – though I did bring along the brief for a new children’s picture book I’d been commissioned to do – but also for my own enjoyment. Sketching the scenery and copying images from photographs stored on my phone of Joni as a tiny baby; photographs I hadn’t been able to revisit since that awful time because it had been too painful. It made any joy on our faces seem such a lie. On one particularly rainy afternoon, I spent an hour sketching Joni asleep in Jason’s arms, noticing every last detail on his face, recognizing how he had aged over the years – more creases around the eyes, his skin slightly looser, nose a little wider and a few grey hairs. I swelled with love for them both. We had become an ‘us’ again, away from the stifling, hectic pace of London life.

On that holiday, Jason and I started having sex again too. I mean really passionate, great sex that felt more intense and meaningful than ever, with our baby snoozing away contentedly in her cot just a few feet away. Wanting to be with him again physically was one of the hardest parts for me. And despite the fact I felt slightly shy about how my body looked post-baby, Jason devoured me naked, commenting on how beautiful I looked, how he was lucky to have a wife who was so sexy and gorgeous and how he loved the taste of me. But most of all, he stared into my eyes and told me how much he loved me, over and over again. There was no expressing his love through my belly as he used to do when I was pregnant, or soppy, drunk declarations like in the early days of fatherhood; this was the real thing.

One evening, when we were sitting by the fire in the gîte reading books – it was so cold we’d felt the need to light an open fire each evening – I went and got something from my bag.

It was a tiny handwritten card I had received; it had been posted through the front door by Lucy, the day after the test results arrived. I’d been carrying it around, like some kind of talisman, almost as though having it in my possession was helping me to process things, upsetting as it was.

I thought about its contents – I knew it so well. But I’d gone past feeling angry with Lucy; I had almost been able to forgive her. Her desire to be a mother had been so strong she was blindsided. She had been willing to risk everything, including the man who truly loved her. I opened the card for a moment to read the words again. Just three short sentences: