It’s like a knife twisting inside me as I load picture after picture of you looking into her eyes. You used to do this thing with me, right at the beginning, when you had to be touching me, looking at me. Slightly smiling. I can see it here. In the art gallery, heads inclined towards each other. Holding hands. It actually stings my soul more than seeing you having sex with them.

I collect myself quickly. No doubt it sank into sexual boredom. No BJ. This woman, like me, thought she was getting your heart, but all you really cared about was sex. In the final analysis, you were out for what you could get. Six out of ten. I almost feel sorry for her until I load the last picture.

She’s holding Charlie. Charlie’s about six months old and she’s cradling him and smiling. You’re beside her, arm draped around her shoulder. I remember this day clearly. You said that you needed to go into work on a Saturday, but I had a terrible head cold. I practically forced you to take Charlie with you so I could get some sleep.

You didn’t want to. You argued, got a little bit nasty. Inferred that I was lazy. A bad mother. That ‘things like this happen and you have to look after your child even when you’re ill’.

I still had the strength to fight back in those days. I argued with you, telling you that he was your son, your child, and it was about time you stepped up. You were awkward with him, lifting him stiffly into his buggy and slamming the door as you left. I fully expected you to drop him off at your mother’s or my sister Paula’s and when you came home at seven o’clock with him I was pleasantly surprised.

Now I know what really happened. You took our son out with your mistress. I click back through the pictures. It’s difficult to tell how long your affair with Frances went on, but many of the pictures are outdoors and the seasons change in the background. Charlie would have been six months old in the summer. Some of the pictures before that are in the autumn.

Copper leaves on the trees as you walk hand in hand in the park. There are even some of Frances kicking leaves. Her on a swing. You on a swing. Me fucking pregnant at home.

I throw the laptop onto the seat beside me and screech out of the car park. I speed up the Huddersfield Road, temper tears streaming down my face and I park up in a layby. There’s a brew van there and I get a coffee. Then I Google Frances’ café.

It’s a small tea shop in a small village. Uppermill is touristy, but not so much on a Tuesday morning. The Tea Cosy. I bet it is.