‘I thought she was gone. All these years I’d created this fantasy that she’d moved to France, like she used to say she would when he was out of earshot. And I wasn’t worried about him. I knew he was dead because a friend of his managed to track down my address and send me a letter telling me about the funeral, which of course I didn’t go to. I was glad he was dead. Glad that he didn’t leave me the house or any money. Ecstatic. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Like I was finally free. I think knowing he was dead was what allowed me to open myself up to the idea of falling in love.

‘Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. It’s my bloody fault I’m here. My stupid idea to come back, face my fears.’

‘So you drove right up to the cottage?’ I prompted, tasting blood from a torn cuticle.

‘Yes. I noticed boards on the windows and thought some homeless person might have holed up inside. I didn’t want to go in. I needed to see it; I don’t know why – it’s hard to explain.

‘I got out of my car and wandered up to the front door. The same smells – smells of trees and grass and swamp and pollen – began to overwhelm me, and I started to cry. I couldn’t be there. I knew I’d made a mistake – I wasn’t ready. Would never be ready. So I turned to go and her car was pulling up behind mine, blocking me in. I froze. She got out of her car and we stared at each other. I was so surprised that I didn’t speak. She looked so much older. Thinner, haggard, but those hateful eyes were the same.

‘I found my voice and told her I was going. Could she move her car? She didn’t reply; just walked towards me with her head tilted to the side in a really odd way and a strange smile on her face.

‘I asked her again to move her car, but she ignored me and kept walking over. I asked her to move her car one more time. She didn’t say anything, just smirked. I didn’t know what to do. She slid her hand into her pocket then raised her hand. She was holding a knife.

‘She said something like, “I’m so happy you came back, Sis. It’s so great to see you.” But I remember thinking that her voice was flat, strange. Disconnected somehow.

‘I asked her what the knife was for, but she said nothing. She stopped a yard from me and said, “Your choice: shelter or knife.”