Although part of her still seethed, she accepted that what he was saying was probably true. But she knew, too, that she’d often tried to help him find something he could settle to, and had not been heard. The fault perhaps lay in lack of communication on both sides … and that he hadn’t taken responsibility for his own life. Instead, he’d made her feel her retirement was the solution to everything. But she was on the back foot, now, weakened by guilt and without the energy for a coherent defence. ‘Please,’ she said, looking him directly in the eye, ‘let’s not do this any more, Devan. If you want me to retire, then I will.’

Her words fell like molten lead in the hot room, shocking her as much as Devan. Connie realized she was trembling. Something had snapped, like the painter on a boat in a storm, wrenching her away from the shore. She knew her guilt over Jared had partly provoked it. But she was also aware of an overwhelming desire to change the narrative, move on from this interminable dichotomy.

Clearly taken aback, Devan was eyeing her suspiciously.

‘Are you serious?’ he asked evenly.

Riley, sensing the tension, came up to her and laid his head in her lap. She stroked him absentmindedly, barely conscious of where this was taking them, but feeling out of control and angry. ‘If that’s what you want,’ she said stiffly.

‘It’s not just about what I want, Connie.’ Devan’s voice was gentle. ‘Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.’

Connie clenched her teeth. But her voice was level as she said, ‘I can’t have this conversation even one more time, Devan. It’s destroying us both.’

The room was very quiet, the impasse rendering them both immobile. Riley had given up and was curled in his bed again. The chicken stew was cold in their bowls. The rain poured down.

Her husband’s hand crept over hers and she allowed it to rest there. But she could not let go inside. In the ensuing silence, she listened to her breath: short, tight little gasps as she realized what she’d just agreed to.

‘I love you, Con,’ she heard Devan say.

That was the tipping point. She closed her eyes and reminded herself that this was home. This was her husband’s hand over hers. This was safety, warmth, familiarity, history. Over thirty years of it. If she had to compromise, she would. She just hoped the resentment would go away.

‘Connie?’ Devan was staring at her. ‘We can sort this out, can’t we?’

She gave a small nod of acknowledgement. Let it go, she urged herself. Accept the olive branch, such as it is. If she didn’t, she realized the chasm between them would widen so much that neither would be able to vault to the other side.