‘It must have been very tough, but I’m not you, Isabel,’ I say. ‘And I can’t believe you’ve changed sides.’

Isabel finally glances up at me, her eyes bluer even than her son’s. ‘I am on your side, Gemma. If anything, more than before. Losing my son made me a little unhinged, and the idea of a grandchild gave me hope when I needed it.’

‘Yes. Hope is the whole point!’

‘But now . . . the grief has finally started to fade and I can see the other legacies that Andrew left. His business has helped dozens of food producers, even preserved some of our landscape. And for those of us who loved him, he’s left memories. Words. There doesn’t have to be a baby.’

‘You’re betraying your son.’ Bear lifts his head, alarmed by the change in my voice.

‘No, I’m not. I’m saying what he’d say. He wanted you to be happy, and you still have time to meet someone else – have a family with them.’

Or even meet someone who already has a family.

Thinking of Dan now is ridiculous. I haven’t even kissed the man – though only because he backed off. And his silence since Thursday night says it all.

‘I don’t want someone else’s child. I want Andrew’s.’

Isabel sighs and takes another slug of wine, as though she’s steeling herself. ‘Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons, Gemma?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I know you and Andrew disagreed about timing. When you first married.’

No. Not this.

‘That’s not true.’

It is true. I wanted kids, but I also wanted a year or two enjoying being a couple before parenthood forced us to share each other. When I had a pregnancy scare, a few weeks after we got home from our honeymoon, the relief when my period came was huge.

And now that memory taunts me every time I get a negative result. Because if we had tried straight away, Andrew might have been a dad before he got sick. The thought of him with our baby in his arms makes my eyes sting.

SPLASH!

We both look up.

Bear has jumped into the pond. He thrashes about noisily until his movements turn into a chaotic doggy-paddle, and he’s yelping in delight.

‘Bloody hell!’ Isabel appears at my side. Bear’s flat head bobs up and down, covered in bright-green pondweed, like a miniature Loch Ness monster. His brow is furrowed and his dark eyes seem to say: not my bad. It was the fish.

Isabel clambers over the rockery, reaching for a large pond net, like she’s the Child Catcher. ‘Bear!’ Her voice is stern but not angry. His ears swivel in her direction, followed by his entire upper body, creating ripples around him.

‘Out, NOW!’ she says, gesturing with her hand towards the patio. Bear swim-waddles towards her, a large lily pad resting on his head, like a designer hat.

‘Isabel, he’s going to—’

The moment Bear’s paws hit the patio, he shakes, with my mother-in-law at the epicentre of the mini-tornado. Her peach jumpsuit is speckled green and black, her face freckled with algae and mud.