As the sun went down, I felt scared. Most of all, I feared going back to our place alone. To have to face him, without him. To have to open the door, inhale the pungent teenage fragrance he spritzed himself with every morning, pick up the dirty clothes he’d flung into the passage to the utility room, as was his habit. Eat. Sleep. Not sleep. The night before, I’d been given sleeping tablets, and, exhausted, I’d fallen into a dreamless sleep. But this first night without him would be different. I saw it coming and slammed on the brakes, pretending not to hear the nurses who, for the past few minutes, had been gently signalling to me that I’d have to leave soon, that I couldn’t stay. And that this was likely to go on. That I’d have to be strong, for him. I gave him a long, drawn-out kiss, whispered things that only he and I would understand. I stood up and walked out of his room, leaving behind my baby and my previous existence. I was going to have to face up to life ‘after’.