The separation had been a long drawn-out event.

He presumed they usually were, when the truth of his marital partnership and the reality of the birth father of his son, who was now almost three, became apparent.

They had been married for twelve months when she became pregnant. His delight and enthusiasm for the whole process was unquestioned and being conventional, a reaction, he always thought, to the lack of organisation in his parents’ life; he desired it and believed it to be the correct thing to do. Marriage and the creation of a family. He felt it would consolidate what was proving to be increasingly difficult.

The marriage, although he was convinced he was in love, lacked a closeness. It was as if his wife did not understand the concept of love anymore, of caring, or indeed of being a mother, so his relationship with his boy, Jacob, became consuming in a way that was both paternal and maternal. He wondered, on an almost permanent basis, why she ever married him in the first place, even though at the time it seemed inevitably perfect, but the cruel blow of angry truth was revealed on a Wednesday night as he was bathing Jacob – his customary way to spend an evening after he had prepared his food – when father and son played together for half an hour before the first little signs of grumpiness intimated the start of bedtime tiredness. He always looked forward to telling Jacob a little story, and hoped that in return Jacob looked forward to those moments as much.

It was then, towelling Jacob dry with the happy sounds uttering from his mouth, forming the words in the relentlessly adorable way that makes each one a gem, that his wife, after a day of yet more friction, opened the door of the bathroom and in the tradition of continuing a row that he assumed was over, told him that he was not the baby’s father.

*

The moment froze; his love, he was aware, did not change towards his son for the slightest of seconds, his disbelief at her words was solid in conviction, and his first reaction was that she was just trying to say the thing that she knew would hurt him the most.

He continued the towelling-down, picked up his son and carried him to what he considered to be the safety of the boy’s bedroom. He wanted him to hear no more, anxiety was spreading across the little boy’s face as his concern for his mother’s now increasing rage became clear. Her concern for Jacob was non-existent. She followed Ever into the room with a force and determination that disturbed.

‘You think I’m fucking with you, don’t you? That it’s not the truth, but it is. It fucking is. I’m telling you.’

It seemed to be an anger growing out of her own guilt.