Of course, if it had been a clean divorce and you’d admitted what you had done there would be no need for all this unpleasantness now. If we could have shared the care of our children. If I could have retained at least a fraction of the life we built together I could have let it go.

As I turn the key in the front door, the delivery van pulls up behind my car. I push the oversized leather holdall behind the lounge door and stand by the huge suitcases. I exhale as I see it’s not the same guy, it’s an older, greyer version of him in the same brown uniform. I smile.

‘Here they are. Sorry. Sorry. I was in a rush this morning and I didn’t read the labels.’

He smiles back and scans the hallway, which is piled high with a year’s worth of takeaway menus, then the cases.

‘Wouldn’t have mattered. Labels are blank. Driver must have turned one over instead of looking at the docket.’

He tuts and shows it to me. I can see the spider shadows of the black ink I used to write our address on those cases for our honeymoon, almost invisible on the other side. Turned inwards.

‘Thank you, I did ring as soon as I realised what must have happened. These belong to my ex-husband and …’

He’s nodding diplomatically. No one wants you to mention a divorce. He reverently removes the cases and, apologetic, asks me to sign again. I replicate the scribble that means nothing and go inside.

My hands are itching. I’m half blind with giddiness and retribution and the knowledge that, in about half an hour, you’ll know exactly what I’ll be doing. For the first time since you closed that door behind you, our minds will be back in sync.