‘Oh – hello Jennifer,’ she says, glancing at me over her shoulder, but that’s it; she carries on across the playground to join her little welcoming group, melding in with them so easily, setting off a little laugh that makes my stomach drop. I haven’t forgotten what happened last year and neither have they: how it all culminated in that awful moment at Charlie’s sports day, in front of everyone, when I couldn’t control myself, simply couldn’t think straight. Now every exchange here is so painfully awkward. I thought I was getting used to the loneliness, but today it’s harder than ever to stand there and pretend I fit in, while desperately trying to ignore the anxiety that gnaws at me. The worst kind of loneliness is when you are surrounded by other people, because then you know for sure that there is no hope, no real solution. Then you know that the problem isn’t a practical or physical one; it’s the messes you’ve made that won’t ever let you get close.

I hold on to the fact that soon I’ll see Charlie. Just the thought of him sends a wave of warmth through me, softening my muscles, slowing my heart. I remember reading once about oxytocin, how women produce it in childbirth, and after, and sometimes I like to tell myself that’s what this feeling is: a rush of love hormone for my child. I hitch my handbag up on my shoulder and straighten the cuffs of my blazer. The children are starting to stream out now, boisterous and robust, their feet kicking up shards of gravel from the tarmac. And now I see him, my son. The sight of him still gets me every time, and today too, despite my numbed state, my mind fires out the irrepressible thought: he is the most beautiful creature to me in the world.

He lopes towards me, grinning, happy to see me, of course he is. He is tall enough now, eight years old, almost nine, that I can hug him standing up, almost straight. I bend the tiniest amount at the waist as he comes towards me and hold out my arms to him, just as all the other parents do for their own children. My God, he’s beautiful, I think. Gladly, he pushes against me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I pull him close, wondering if he can feel my heart still jabbering in my chest as he leans against me, his bird-like ribs pressed to my stomach.

‘Good day?’ I ask him, my cheek against his hair.

‘A good day,’ he confirms, turning his face up to me, and my heart calms at once at his words.

It’s only as I release him and he steps away that I see it.

His leg.

He looks as if he is dragging his leg.