She remembered the day they’d met Bash for the first time. It was the morning after the birth, the hospital room boiling hot, Caitlin flushed and puffy, dazed as she carefully handed Devan the baby. Connie would never forget the absolute absorption on her husband’s face, the intense love in his eyes as he tenderly cradled his grandson for the first time, the little bundle so small and frail in his man-sized arms. She had been overwhelmed, realizing that the huge love she felt for Devan, and he for her, had now spawned two further generations of love. Thinking of that moment now, she told herself nothing had really changed. But the unquestioned closeness, the feeling of being part of a loving team, no longer seemed so evident.

The days since the drunken binge had been quiet at home. Connie had not thought at the time that he’d heard what she said, but he did seem to be making more effort, pointedly doing things about the house – like sanding the scarred kitchen table, a job he’d been talking about for months. He couldn’t keep it up for long, though, and she would come home from shopping or coffee with a friend to find him slumped in front of some match or other, one hand clutching his phone, the other cradling a glass of red wine – often fast asleep. He was utterly resistant to going out, even for a walk, and sent Connie on her own to supper with friends. ‘Tell them it’s my back,’ he’d say. And when she’d raise her eyebrows at him, he merely snapped, ‘It’s true.’

But the prospect of seeing his daughter and grandson seemed to spark him up, and Saturday morning saw a version of the old Devan, spruced up and standing straight, even coming with her to the supermarket and offering to make his famous sausage pasta for supper. Connie held her breath, hoping this resurgence would last at least till Sunday night.

As Devan fussed over which brand of penne was best, she leaned on the trolley in the supermarket aisle and remembered with a pang the first time he’d cooked her sausage pasta, about twenty years ago now. She had always been the family cook, but that January weekend she’d slipped on black ice on the pavement outside the house when she’d taken their previous dog, a rescue greyhound called Corky, for a walk just before it got dark.

Devan had examined the painful area, gently manipulating her foot, then held a packet of frozen peas to her ankle and rubbed in pain-relief gel. He’d settled her on the sofa, her foot elevated on a cushion, then handed her a cup of tea. Caitlin, about twelve at the time, was having a sleepover with a friend, so they had the house to themselves. Devan could not have been more solicitous.