What would Andrew do now? Offer a towel, a hug, a burst of laughter?

Probably all three. God, I miss him.

Isabel has Bear in her arms, his filthy, wriggling bulk pressed against her chest, and his pink tongue pokes out as he tries to lick her.

‘Let me take him,’ I say.

‘No. I can’t get any filthier than I already am, and you—’ She hesitates. ‘Well, given your plans, you need to take care of yourself. Let’s get him in the bath – sorry, Bear, but there’s always a price to be paid for fun.’

I drive home with Bear snoring next to me on the passenger seat, his seatbelt harness tight against his damp chest.

‘Did you do that on purpose?’ I stroke between his ears as I wait at traffic lights.

After Isabel cleaned him up, we didn’t go back to talking about the FET. But now my anger at Isabel has expanded to fury at the entire world. Why can’t anyone accept this is what we wanted?

When we’d made our decision, we tried to get the whole family onside: we invited my parents and Isabel over in early January, shortly after Andrew relapsed. Things were moving much faster than we’d hoped.

I baked a banana cake and bought deli sandwiches and laid the food out on the table we previously used for jigsaws. (Our dining table had gone into storage to make room for Andrew’s new hospital bed.)

Andrew did most of the talking, though words that had always come so easily were more halting now, from the cancer or the treatment, or both.

‘We want a family so much, and it could still happen for Gemma. I haven’t put any pressure on her, and of course she can change her mind at any time. But we got four embryos from the IVF. That’s four chances.’

My mum couldn’t contain her rage. We were selfish and stupid and, what was more, we were giving up the battle against cancer too easily. We should focus on drug trials, not distract ourselves by planning a baby in this morbid way.

As my mother’s tsunami of anger crashed over us, I caught Isabel’s eye and I knew she understood why we needed to believe in a future. But even my dad couldn’t bring himself to say he approved, and after he bundled Mum off home, Isabel and I tried to force party food down our dry throats.

‘Do you think we’re mad, Mum?’ Andrew asked her.

She shook her head. ‘No. You’re trying to make the best of a bad hand.’

‘But is it unfair to Gemma, or our future children?’

‘You might still get to be the brilliant dad we know you can be,’ Isabel said, though I don’t see how she could have believed that. ‘But you lost your dad and still turned out all right.’

‘I had Dad in my life for fourteen good years. It’s different to bring a child into the world knowing they’ll only ever have one parent.’