Halfway through the hearing she was called to give evidence. I knew at that point that I had lost my children. You sat there, hair tousled and face affable, but long-suffering. She, at pains to show she was über-sympathetic, tore me to shreds. She told them that I’d always had a tendency to ‘go into a world of my own’; asked if she thought I was dangerous, she’d theatrically looked at the table, her knuckles white, until she dramatically raised her head and nodded.

Everyone looked surprised as I let out a wail and sobbed heavily. I couldn’t understand how they couldn’t see through this. How they could even consider her evidence. How, as she sat down lightly, rearranging her designer dress, the judge was asking her if she would be providing residence for my children until ‘Caroline’s mental health improves’. She knew how much I love my children. How she could, without even looking at me, nod and smile and whisper: ‘Of course. Anything to help.’

That was a year ago. What was actually granted was a joint care arrangement with me having them half the time when I was ‘feeling better’ – which actually meant after an assessment by social services. Naturally, I thought every day about just going to get them back, but how would I explain the state of the house? I’d told myself that next week I would hire a skip and sort it out, but I just ordered more and more stuff. There never seemed to be a right time to contact social services. The truth is that I was scared.

I saw them at first, but it was awkward. They both eyed me suspiciously and after three months of stilted silence sitting in your mother’s lounge with her watching me like a hawk, I took them to McDonald’s. I was checking my phone in the queue and I asked Charlie to grab the tray. He stood very still, looking at me. Those brown eyes. Your eyes, Jack. He was beautiful. Tears sprung up and I went to hold his hand, but he pulled it away. In a split second I saw that he was clutching a piece of paper tightly.

I admit that I grabbed his arm. I was probably shouting too. Something like: ‘Give me that, Charlie. Give me that paper!’

It looked worse than what it was on the McDonald’s CCTV. I’d prised his fingers from around the paper and opened it up. Straight away I recognised your handwriting.

If Mummy starts to act strangely call this number. If there is no phone, ask a nearby adult.