‘And what do you think?’ I dare to ask.

There’s a heavy sigh at the end of the line. ‘I so want to try and forgive him. You and I both know how exhausting it’s been to hold on to the anger and rage for all this time.’

And hatred and grief, I want to add. And all the other emotions you experience when your father kills his wife; a sister to Meryl and a mother to me.

‘So have you?’ I force myself to ask.

‘Have I what?’

‘Have you forgiven him?’

‘He sounds like he’s a very different person to the one who went into prison,’ she says, and in that instant, so too is Aunt Meryl. No longer is she my advocate; our combined force for good, who protested on the streets of New York, bearing placards with the slogans Stop Violence Against Women and Love Shouldn’t Hurt.

While I’ve been fantasizing about avenging my mother’s death, she’s been practising forgiveness for the very man who caused it.

‘She wants to see you,’ Aunt Meryl goes on, as I do all that I can to shut out what she’s saying. ‘She knows how much she hurt you last time and she wants to start building bridges.’

My insides feel as if they’re being twisted, tying me up into tight knots. Whilst there was a time, not so long ago, when that would have been what I’d wanted, more than anything else in the world, now I can’t help but wonder what her motivation is. Is she looking for sisterly love? Or is she looking for revenge?

‘Have you told her where I am?’ I ask, unable to stop the involuntary shiver that runs through me.

‘Well . . .’ she starts, coughing to clear her throat; a sign I’ve long since known precedes an awkward truth. ‘She wanted to know how you were and what you were doing with your life.’

I swallow the bitter taste that is beginning to sour my mouth.

‘I told her that you were doing really well in England and that she’d be proud of everything you’ve achieved.’

‘So you haven’t given her my number or address?’ I ask, though why it suddenly bothers me, I don’t know. I used to give my contact details to literally anyone on the street, if it meant there was a chance of them being passed on to her. She’s your sister, for Christ’s sake, I say to myself, in an attempt to assuage the inexplicable panic that’s rising in my chest.

‘I would never give your personal information out to anyone without asking you first,’ says Aunt Meryl.

My breathing steadies as the image of Jennifer striding through Heathrow airport, looking to avenge the misery I’ve bestowed on her life, fades away.