In an instant, I was taken back to the hospital inquiry. Pregnant, grieving, being attacked on every side. I’d been asked to come in and discuss Archie’s postnatal care. Nurse Natalie was at the front entrance, egging on an angry mob. Someone involved in the inquiry had told her our meeting times and, whenever we arrived, she was waiting for us. Marty tried to hurry me along as the crowd chanted at us: ‘You killed your son!’ A grey-haired man, the veins bulging in his neck, had thrown red paint at me. It oozed down my hair and neck, into the top of my shirt. When I touched it, I thought it was blood.

Stabbing at the remote, I made Nurse Natalie disappear from my screen.

Just a small glass. To take the edge off.

I poured it into a mug, and guzzled the first mouthful. And then another. The antidepressant made me so tired. Bella had almost given up her daytime naps, but some days I’d insist she have a rest so I could close my eyes too. Last week, I’d promised myself that I’d find a doctor and discuss other options. But not today. Today I needed the oblivion.

The wine was having no effect. I refilled the mug and drained it …

I was woken by a beeping noise. Why wouldn’t someone turn it off?

‘Mummy, the cake is ready. It’s Archie’s birfday.’

I opened my eyes and looked up from the couch. Archie was standing in front of me, his face obscured by a soft soccer ball. But how could that be?

The ball moved and another face appeared. Bella.

‘Where’d you get that?’ I snapped at her.

‘In Archie’s room.’

‘What were you doing in there?’

Bella frowned at me and stepped backwards.

‘I was with you, Mummy. We were looking at the toys.’

Had I been in Archie’s room with Bella? No, I was too fragile today. I wouldn’t have gone in there. Struggling up from the couch, I tried to recall the morning. We’d been making a cake. I prised the soccer ball from her hands and walked down the hall, pushed open the door of ‘his room’. The blueness of the room made my throat tight. I must have sat in here earlier, staring at the photos, caressing the teddy. Balancing the ball on the shelf, I spun around and shut the door again.

‘You’re not allowed to play in there.’

‘Why not?’ Bella demanded. ‘I want the train and the bunny and the ball. It’s not fair.’

She was right. It wasn’t fucking fair—for Archie.

Back in the kitchen, the cake came out burnt on top, shrivelled in its tin.

‘It’s black.’ Bella looked at me accusingly.

The smell of charred cooking seeped from the oven. Happy birthday, Archie. Your mother has failed you again.