Deirdre had been in our garden the day that Bella broke her wrist. Had she seen what happened? Had she blamed me? Or Marty?

That day, the alarm had buzzed at 5.45 am and Marty was showered and gone by quarter past six. He’d kissed my forehead and said nothing about Archie’s birthday. He should have agreed to come with me to Newcastle on the weekend, take flowers to the grave and give Bella a red balloon for her baby brother.

Five years old today.

Kindergarten age. But Archie never would have started school. Sometimes, when we were leaving playgroup, I saw the kindy boys dashing around the school playground. Kicking a soccer ball. Dangling on the monkey bars. Rumbling, wrestling, play fighting. Constantly moving their strong bodies. My beautiful boy would never have been one of them.

At 7 am, Bella had snuggled into bed with me. She plumped the pillows around her, then disappeared under the covers.

‘Come down here, Mummy,’ she said, her muffled voice rising from the depths of the doona. ‘Lulu has found some trolls in the cave. They’re scary. Ooohhhhh. They want to eat her.’

Marty had been reading ‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’ to her last night. She’d been fascinated—and terrified—by the troll under the bridge. I tried to shut out the thoughts of those other trolls: the online trolls who had no understanding of our pain.

Phoebe had rung at nine and asked what we’d planned for the day.

Instead of talking about Archie, I told her about playgroup. It was getting easier week by week; I was feeling more accepted. Even though Mel had joined after me, they’d taken to her straight away. Now she was looking after their kids. She’d offered to care for Bella, too. God, to be responsible for someone else’s child—I shivered.

‘I told you that I’d had a breakthrough, didn’t I?’

I’d trusted the playgroup mums to look after Bella while I walked to the supermarket.

‘Yeah, how was Bella when you got back?’

‘Fine. She didn’t even seem to notice I’d gone.’

Before Phoebe hung up, she had made a suggestion. ‘Why don’t you and Bella bake a cake today?’

Milk, flour, eggs. I put the ingredients out on the benchtop.

‘Are we making a cake for my birfday?’ Bella had asked.

‘No, sweetie.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Today is Archie’s birthday.’

‘My fairy brother.’ She held her arms up for me to lift her onto the high stool. ‘How is he going to eat it?’

‘We’ll have to eat it for him.’

‘Poor Archie. Can we make choc-o-late? I want choc-o-late for my cake, too.’

The tin of cocoa was next to the half-full bottle of red wine from last night. Marty and I had finished one bottle; then, when he’d gone upstairs to get ready for bed, I’d opened another.