Flinching, I shifted my body away from him, closer to the car door, and a blast of warm air from the vents hit my face. We hadn’t talked about the day of Bella’s broken wrist. Afterwards, he had treated me with kid gloves and I’d been grateful. I didn’t know if he accepted any of the blame or simply blamed me. But I couldn’t talk about that day now, not with Bella missing. It was my fault. All of it.

‘I’ve stopped drinking and I stopped the antidepressants.’

‘What? You just stopped?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh Christ. Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve helped.’

The antidepressants had given me diarrhoea, made me exhausted and uninterested in sex. Although given the current state of our relationship, I wasn’t sure if that last symptom could be attributed to the drugs. They’d also made me feel a little lighter, a little calmer; they had blunted the sharp edges. I could appreciate the view of the mountains, the magical tinkle of Bella’s laugh. I’d been able to interact with the women at playgroup and enjoy the experience. As the playgroup mums had become my friends and I’d felt better and better, I thought I could cope without my medication. My plan was to talk to a GP and work out a withdrawal dosage. But then, after Bella’s broken wrist … I didn’t take a tablet the next morning. Nor the next.

‘Lexie, you need to taper the dose slowly or you’ll get withdrawal symptoms. Oh Christ,’ he said again and shook his head. ‘You should have half a tablet when we get home.’

Without the medication, my diarrhoea had gone and the exhaustion had lifted. No need to sneak a nap on the couch every lunchtime. But the withdrawal had given me headaches and nausea. And when I’d finally managed to fall asleep, my dreams had been so vivid; they seemed more real than life itself.

‘No, I’m not taking them anymore.’

Somewhere, beneath the blame and the grief, I knew he still cared; he still loved me as he once had. And I loved him. But he deserved a better wife. And I didn’t deserve to be the mother of his children.