After dinner, while the boys played on the floor, Jake came and sat next to me. To this day, I think he was going to suggest that we watch a TV series or a film when the kids were in bed, as we had done almost every night since I was pregnant with Ted. I have often wondered what would have happened if we had done that. I can see that imaginary possibility – which surely exists in some other dimension – almost as clearly as I can see the actual events that have taken place.

I would have put my feet in Jake’s lap: a true act of forgiveness. He would have allowed me to have the remote – the first of so many small allowances, over so many months – and we would have turned our faces to the fire of the screen, let it absolve us, a living presence, an endless alternative. One evening – not that evening, but on some night not too far away – he would have put his hands on my feet, the first touch, and we could have started again.

But as soon as the boys were asleep, I put myself to bed. I carried out my skincare routine, the adult version of childhood prayers, rubbing my face in precise circles, my own touch gentle on my cheeks. Before I turned off the light, I rubbed cream over my hands, an expensive product with all-­organic ingredients blended to create the illusion of calm, the impression of the desire to sleep. This could be a normal night, I told myself. I have done the usual things. I am sticking to a routine.

I was not even close to sleep when I heard his footsteps; I was looping around a curve in my mind, falling down the slopes of a particular feeling. I tried to stay there, to feign sleep, make my breath as regular and slow as I could. But he sat on the edge of the bed, tilting the mattress sideways with his body.

It seemed to be up to me to put the bedside light on, but I didn’t do it. At that moment, any movement felt like a capitulation, an agreement that he could be there.

What do you want?

This came out as more of a whisper than I intended, the lack of light lowering my voice naturally, making it seem more like a question than an accusation, a soft noise between us.

His shape changed in the darkness, a collection of rocks moving with geological slowness. He had his hand on his forehead, I thought, from what I could see from the edge of my vision. The image was fuzzy: he could easily have had his hand anywhere else.