It will be worse for Jack. Never knowing if I will flip and spill the truth. I’ll be like a fly buzzing around his head, one that he can never quite swat. Nothing he can do can ever manipulate those mismatching dates – they are wrong for ever. And he’ll suffer for ever because of it. Good. But I’ll never act on my feelings again. I owe that to my children. If I’ve learned one thing from all this, it’s that they’re the loves of my life.

She reaches into her bag and places an envelope on the table. She looks straight at me now.

‘I heard what Katy said to you. About the abuse. And that you had suffered too. I asked our domestic abuse liaison officer for some information.’ I stare at the buff envelope. It’s the first time anyone has acknowledged the depth of what happened to me. Saw it as more than let it go or get over it. More than a break-up. ‘You don’t have to, but it’s there if you ever want to take it further. But as I said, it’s the last time I’ll need to come round.’

‘Yes. The last time. Thank you. Thank you for all you have done. And for this.’

I take the envelope. She waits for more, as if I am somehow going to offer a full confession. Then she goes and drives away in her little blue car.

Hours pass slowly and at the allotted time I sit by the window, waiting, waiting, waiting for a car to arrive with my precious cargo. I still don’t fully believe it will until I see a blonde head in a black BMW stop outside. I rush to the door and see two small figures getting out with backpacks. Emma is leaning into the boot of the car and pulling out the four large brown Samsonites that arrived here to begin this. She pulls them up the drive, two at a time. Her face is set in a false smile.

‘Come on, kids. Home!’

They rush towards me and I drop to my knees and hug them. Emma watches, arms folded. She turns and walks away.

Charlie takes my face in his hands.

‘I told you we’d come back, Mummy. I told you.’

The tears flow and a huge wave of relief rides over the part of me that has fought for this moment with every fibre of my being. We go inside and they run up to their rooms, squealing with delight at the new tablets and bouncing on their beds. Laura shouts downstairs.

‘Mummy. Mummy. Can I have a drink?’

It suddenly all feels normal, as if nothing ever happened and Jack has just disappeared. But the still-simmering anxiety I feel inside assures me that nothing is normal and he is still there in the background. Or is he?