‘I’m not sure a high-achieving school is the right environment for Tom Kinnock,’ I say. ‘Very strict and results obsessed. After what this boy has been through, maybe he needs somewhere more nurturing.’

‘Don’t worry about the school,’ says Tessa. ‘Steelfield is a godsend. They keep the kids in line. No chair throwing or teacher nervous breakdowns. Just worry about getting that case shut down ASAP. The father is a risk factor, but all the dirty work is done.’

‘I’m pretty overwhelmed here, Tessa.’

‘Welcome to social work.’ Tessa gives her Nespresso machine a brief thump with a closed fist.

Lizzie

A brown envelope, addressed formally to Elizabeth Kinnock. The mottled paper has a muddy shoeprint from where I stepped on it.

I study the postmark. It’s from the county council, i.e. social services. I know these sorts of letters from when we lived with Olly. We’d like to meet to discuss your son …

I should have known social services would want to meet us. Check we’re settling into our new life. But we don’t need any of that official stuff now. Olly is gone.

My fingers want to scrunch the brown paper into a tight ball, then push the letter deep down into the paper recycling, under the organic ready-meal sleeves and junk mail. Stuff away bad memories of an old life, now gone.

But instead I shelve the letter by the bread bin, resolving to open it after a cup of tea. There are other letters to read first.

I sit on the Chesterfield sofa-arm and slide my fingers under paper folds, tearing and pulling free replies to my many job applications. They’re all rejections – I’d guessed as much, given the timing of the letters. If you get the job, they mail you straight away.

I look around the growing chaos that is our new house. There are toys everywhere, children’s books, a blanket and pillow for when Tom dozes on the sofa. Really, it’s hard enough keeping on top of all this, let alone finding a job too.

The house was beautiful when we moved in over the summer – varnished floorboards, cosy living room with a real fireplace, huge, light kitchen and roaming garden full of fruit trees.

But all too quickly it got messy, like my life.

I have that feeling again.

The ‘I can’t manage alone’ feeling.

I squash it down.

I am strong. Capable. Tom and I can have a life without Olly. More importantly, we must have a life without him.

There’s no way back.

A memory unzips itself – me, crying and shaking, cowering in a bathtub as Olly’s knuckles pound on the door. Sharp and brutal.

Tears come. It will be different here.