My name is Karen Smith and I’m Robbie’s mum. I’ve been wanting to write for a bit, but it’s been hard. Since what happened I haven’t been much good. But I had to keep going for the other kids. It’s hard for them, too. I’m on my own. Their dad left when Robbie was three. Work has been good about it. I can have time off if I need it but they don’t pay me so I try to keep going. And it helps, having something to do. You don’t forget. I won’t ever forget. But going to work gives you something else to think about and money’s tight with it being just me. I have to feed us all somehow.

Pip took a shuddering breath and wiped her eyes with the flat of her hand. She was frightened to read on, but also compelled to. What did the woman want and why was she writing now, after all this time? Pip could feel her chest grow tighter with each sentence as she waited for the letter to begin its recriminations: the anger, the blame, the sheer and unmitigated hatred the woman must be channelling towards Pip, and which only now she felt able to put into words. But she had to keep going, despite her fear of what was coming next. It was inevitable, like looking at a gory open wound, knowing that it would make you sick but at the same time finding it impossible to ignore. She read on.

I think about you a lot.

Here it comes, thought Pip: the blame. She imagined the woman lying in her bed at night, unable to find any rest or peace, and hurling curses at the woman who stole her precious child from her. It was only natural that she would do that. She must hate Pip with every ounce of her being.

Once again Pip paused. Perhaps, for the sake of her own self-preservation, she really should stop reading and not go any further. She was doing so well at the moment, could feel real progress. The panic attacks had stopped, the dreams were abating, and she was starting to feel like she might be able to enjoy life again. She didn’t want to know about the mother’s pain. She could imagine it for herself, had been doing that exact thing ever since the accident. What could possibly be gained from being told what she already knew and going right back to where she had been? She could just replace the letter in its cheap envelope and throw it into the fire, where it would never have to haunt her again.