I fumble for my keys in my pocket, dropping Charlie’s hand as I do. I wonder if he recognizes the woman as well and remembers her from last year.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, now that I have the keys in my hand. ‘You sent a letter, and I got it and everything … I’m sorry, it just slipped my mind. Please, here, let me open the door.’

The woman moves aside to let me past. Charlie climbs the steps up to the door close behind me.

Inside, our flat is cold, and cluttered. I haven’t tidied. They sent the letter, I should have known she’d be here. Maybe, deep down, I’d been hoping she wouldn’t come.

Margaret follows me inside. ‘In here?’ she says, gesturing towards my cramped living room.

‘Yes, please, go ahead, sit down. Let me just get Charlie sorted.’ I’m assuming she will want to see him too. She did last time. Of course she did, that was what I had kept asking for. Through the doorway, I can see Margaret sitting down, gingerly, on my couch. I wrestle Charlie out of his coat.

‘Go and get changed,’ I whisper to him. ‘Quickly, then come back.’

He frowns, but silently heads to his room.

In the kitchen I hurry to fill the kettle and switch it on, slopping water as I do. ‘Do you want tea?’ I call through to Margaret.

She clears her throat. She is pulling a folder of papers out of her bag. My file, I suppose. My notes. ‘No thank you,’ she says.

The kettle clicks off and I just leave it there in the kitchen, surrounded by the water I’ve spilled.

I go through into the living room and sit down on the only other chair in there, opposite her. I have to move a pile of laundry out of the way first. I can see Margaret’s badge around her neck: Community Psychiatric Nurse, South London Community Mental Health Team. CPN and CMHT for short. I glance towards the hallway to see if Charlie is coming yet. ‘He won’t be a moment,’ I tell her. ‘He’s just getting changed.’

Margaret looks heavier and more tired than when I last saw her. What was that? Seven, eight months ago? Last summer. Her lids hang low over her eyes. She nods and shuffles through the folders she’s pulled from her bag. Clearly she’s had a busy day, appointments right up to last thing on a Friday.

Now Charlie appears in his usual jogging bottoms and T-shirt. ‘Come here,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll have to sit on my knee.’ He wriggles as I pull him onto my lap, his bones sharp against my thighs. The truth is he’s really too big for this now. We must look awkward, strange, sitting like this, but I tell myself Margaret isn’t here to judge. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’m ready.’