After the accident, he came back into my life, for a while. We reconnected over my grief and I allowed him to take care of me, which is all I think he ever wanted to do. But it was a malevolent sense of déjà vu, seeing him interact with Emily, the same way he did with Margot. Perhaps I should have given him more of a chance, given us more of a chance, but once again I was so very acutely aware that any decision I made would affect a little girl, not just me.

Did I suffocate Emily with love? Did I wrap her up so tight in that damn cotton wool that I forgot to teach her how to be independent? Probably shook it all out of her, tidied it away like all those memories in boxes, instead of reminding her who she used to be.

I seem to be questioning everything now I know my time is coming to an end. The idea that there is nothing I can do to change what has happened is terrifying, but part of me is ready to go, to accept that this crazy mess called life is confused and muddled but also exhilarating and glorious, if only we are brave enough to grab hold of it and wring out every last drop of happiness while we still have the chance.

I remember when she first began to draw again. How she needed it, we both needed it, as a way of communicating with one another. The stories I would tell made her disconnect from her pain, made her focus on what she could do, rather than what she couldn’t. I could see the pictures behind her eyes as she drew, couldn’t wait to see if what she produced made sense, matched, with what I imagined in my own mind.

She is better than me. More talented, more creative, and I know that I encouraged her for selfish reasons as well as good. The books were just words on a page, it was her illustrations that really brought them to life, that fired up the imaginations of children the world over. That made Charlie see the potential of that very first story, written by the side of a lake in Switzerland, surrounded by the sound of nightingales. All I ever wanted was for Emily to be happy, to get better. I had no idea what would become of our creation, our distraction from reality. I had no idea how far that little girl and her duck would take us. How much it would act as a way to keep Emily hidden from the world, all over again.

It was never my intention to use her talent for personal gain. It was circumstantial, but I do understand that it might have stopped her from being so much more. That by keeping her so close, I never let her learn how to fly. It is partly my fault, this cocoon, this life, she has stumbled into. At first it was necessary, the only way we could both bumble through our grief. But by allowing her to remain silent, even when the words began to take shape inside her mouth, did I only make it worse? By squirreling her away in the clinic, then in Norfolk, by allowing her to escape into made-up worlds, did I prevent her from being able to live in the real one?