I imagine them lined up, my ragtag army of helpers, and it’s comforting. Except that Isabel’s already declared herself out.

And now I think about Angelica, her fearful face as she shouted at me and Bear, and I try to imagine myself coping if the worst happened, as it has to her and Casey. Yes, people will give you supportive hugs and run errands, but single parenting still means it ultimately comes down to you. ‘I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight.’

‘I could come over and stay with you, if you like?’

‘What about the awning?’ We laugh. ‘No, I’m all right.’

‘But if you change your mind and don’t want it to happen tomorrow, that’s all right too.’

What if I don’t know what I want? If I want all of it and none of it, at the same time?

I wish we could run our many possible lives through a computer before picking the right one. The life where Andrew had gone to the doctor sooner. The life where his treatment had worked. The life where the first embryo had settled in for the ride, before I had time to develop doubts.

The life where I hadn’t taken the shortcut after the clinic and got stuck behind those schoolchildren, with the man with movie-star looks . . .

But you don’t get the simulations. You make your choice and you try not to look back.

‘I’ll be there, Dad.’

‘Well, Little Gem, so will I.’

The night before, I always reread The Amazing Book of Us, though never the last page.

When we first started work on it, we honestly believed that Andrew’s brush with cancer had earned us a happy ending. We hadn’t lost our faith in things working out for the best. So as I began hormone treatment to harvest my eggs, Andrew researched how best to explain the process to young children. Together we gathered photos that documented our joint history: how we met, how we fell in love, our wedding and all the tiny landmarks that would only ever matter to us, and to the child or children we longed for.

I even found the original sketches I’d drawn for Andrew’s company, the pen-and-wash vegetables and fruits and farmyard scenes that helped to relaunch his delivery business.

Our book project kept growing. It would be an archive of us, stored in a wooden box full of brilliant things. We imagined exploring the contents on rainy afternoons, every item with a memory or story attached.

Andrew and I might not have had the furious passion that’s knocked me off course this last week, but he was the love of my life. And our children would have been loved as fiercely as we loved each other.

They still could be. Gingerly I touch my belly, avoiding the tender spots of bruising where I’ve injected myself to help prepare the womb lining. As I close my eyes, I try to picture my body as a welcoming home for the baby we wanted so much for so long. I imagine the two embryos on ice, waiting for their chance.