I stagger backwards then run back to the house, yanking the glass door so hard it almost falls off its hinges. Back through the stinking mess, out of the front door and past the lake.

When I reach the car I have to lean against the bonnet to catch my breath. A couple of moments later I open the passenger door and I am greeted with the sight of Joe, red-faced and screaming.

‘Shh,’ I whisper, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘It’s okay, baby. Mummy’s here.’

He looks at me with terror in his eyes.

‘Want Daddy. Want Daddy now.’

I don’t know what to do. I can’t take Joe into that place when he’s in this state. Think, Lisa, think, I tell myself. Then I remember the shop in the village. I’ll drive there, get some food and provisions, and give myself time to put together a plan.

Joe’s screams intensify on the short drive into the village. Not even a replay of Where the Wild Things Are will calm him down. As he thrashes about in his car seat I try to remember all the things they taught me in parenting class when Joe was first born; the stacks of literature we were supposed to read with headings such as ‘Surviving the Terrible Twos’ and ‘Gentle Parenting Tips’. But the skills I was meant to hone in those years were thwarted by the horrible situation I was living through.

How can you apply gentle parenting when you’re trapped in a toxic environment? How can you survive the terrible twos when you’re only just managing to keep going yourself? Still, the guilt at the years I’ve wasted living in fear gnaws at my insides. I glance at Joe in the rear-view mirror, his face wet with snot and tears, and I make a promise that I’m going to make up for all of it.

When we reach the village I swing the car into a space outside the pub. Someone has placed an unlit cigarette in the inflatable snowman’s mouth. I’d laugh if my situation weren’t so dire.

I unclip my seat belt, open the door and step out into the freezing air. When I open Joe’s door he lets out an ear-splitting cry.

‘It’s okay, Joe,’ I say, leaning across to unfasten his belt. ‘We’re just going to have a look in the shop.’

He shakes his head violently from side to side.

‘Not want to go shop. Want Daddy.’

‘Come on, darling,’ I say, trying to keep the agitation out of my voice. ‘I’ll get you some sweets. What about some nice chocolate buttons, eh?’

‘No,’ he yells. ‘Want go home. Want Daddy.’

He thrusts himself forward in the seat and smacks me right in the eye. The pain shoots up my head and my patience snaps. I look at my little boy, his face red and contorted with rage, and all I see is Mark. It’s then that the anger and frustration I’ve been holding in for the entire journey comes tumbling forth.