Caitlin: I’m sitting on the floor in Paddington Station, I just had a massive panic attack. Can’t swallow or breathe properly. Please help. Not sure where Dad is :(((

I grab my bag and stuff my phone inside. ‘Guys, I’m sorry to leave, but it’s Caitlin. She’s not very well.’ I throw down some money on the table.

‘It’s OK babe, you go, just text us later and please let us know everything is fine, OK?’ Bea says.

‘Take your pizza with you in a box!’ Cec says.

‘See you soon, Ol,’ Isla says.

I leave with a thrilling feeling of purpose.

I feel needed.

Caitlin.

I want to be there for her.

‘It makes me a little sad sometimes to think that I won’t have anyone to take to Disney for the first time, or read Harry Potter to for the first time. But that’s a flash of sentiment that in no way endures, or has any impact on my decision to not have kids.’

Sienna, 39

35

I sit on the edge of the bed, with my hand on Caitlin’s forehead. She is very warm and clammy all over and I hang a thermometer out of her mouth. She is still feeling anxious and has been in bed for a few days. I have bought her one of those ‘heavy duvets’ from John Lewis; they are meant to help with anxiety as the weight of the blanket can make people feel comforted.

‘We won’t be long, Cait,’ Marcus says, kissing her forehead.

‘I’ll bring you back some sausage rolls in my bag,’ I say, leaning down to hug her. I realize, with a jolt, that I love her. It feels scary. A double-edged sword of love. I have let her in now, and she relies on me for support. There’s no turning back. Now I have to carry around this constant worry for her. I can’t just turn my phone off for hours like I used to. I might get something wrong. But Caitlin has given me a newfound responsibility, something I’ve been forever running away from, but with her I don’t seem to mind too much. It has surprised me.

‘Sally is downstairs, OK? And she knows to text me immediately if you need us,’ Marcus says. ‘We’re not going far.’

‘Yes, let us know if you need anything,’ I say, gently squeezing her shoulder.

I’ve asked Marcus if he will come with me to Dorothy’s funeral. He never met her, but he could see how upset I was, so it’s nice that he’s coming today and I won’t be a lemon. Marcus is wearing a black T-shirt with a black jacket and trousers and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses – he looks a bit too hot for a funeral, in my opinion. I’m wearing a thin black polo-neck cashmere jumper, tight black jeans, and a PVC black coat from Topshop over the top. We look as if we are going to a wanky fashion show, not an elderly woman’s funeral, but it’s the only clean black clothes we had. The details of the funeral were posted in a Facebook group called ‘D’s Funeral’. I didn’t know old people used Facebook. They do now, apparently. I copy and paste the address from the Facebook group into Google Maps – it’s at a crematorium next to the cemetery where Dorothy’s husband is also buried.