Lots of people have misunderstood the situation. They think I’m upset about you and your philandering. They don’t understand what has happened here and they tell me to let it go. Let it go. Let it fucking go! Don’t they think I’ve tried that? I gave myself all the advice that I would have given someone in my position. Have a break. Go on holiday. Move house. Get rid of all their stuff. Ice cream. Watch sad films. Cry it out. Sleep. Care for yourself.

I knew exactly what to do. I did all those things right at the beginning, when I felt like it was the kind of normal split-up some of my friends had gone through.

You had to draw it out, though, didn’t you? You walked away with a piece of elastic that was my heart and pulled it as long and as far as possible until, finally, it broke. I would feel like I was ‘getting over it’, then you would come around again to see the children and drop another bombshell that ended with me in tears and you herding the children out as if you were scared.

The worst one was that time you said you were taking them on holiday. I was fine with it. Well, I wasn’t because I suspected that you were going with your current girlfriend, whoever that was, and I was upset because the children would spend time with her and not me.

I told myself that I was still their mother and no one could ever replace me. It was only for a fortnight. I planned to decorate their rooms while you were gone. Two days beforehand you called me to tell me when you would pick them up. I thought we’d already arranged it and was confused. Midday Saturday. No, you said, you’d need them earlier.

I’d told you fine. That’s OK. I’d already packed and I would have their suitcases ready. There was a silence. An awkward silence, the kind where I knew something horrible was going to spill out of your mouth. Something hurtful. You did it for effect. So I braced myself. It was the beginning of what you would eventually hold up in public as ‘bad motherhood’.

‘Right. That’s …er … well, it’s a bit awkward.’ Exactly as I thought. Awkward. ‘The thing is, I need the extra two hours to go and buy them a complete new wardrobe. I might as well come out and say it. You haven’t been … coping, have you? I mean, they’re not … clean.’

I rallied. Fuck off, Jack.

‘Clean clothes? Is that what you’re griping about? Yes. They are clean. I wash them. Just like before.’

More silence. What could possibly come next?

‘I didn’t just mean the clothes. I mean them. And, let’s be honest, Caroline, you. You’re looking rough and … not well.’