But then Mark walked into the kitchen. It all happened so fast. He was taking the glass out of my hands, telling me that I’d been foolish to go to the pool today. That I wasn’t fit to look after Joe. That I was stupid, useless, a bad mother. I opened my eyes and looked up at him and in that moment something else emerged from me, some wild, uncontrollable thing. All the rage I’d repressed for so long came hurtling out of me.

I struck out at him, again and again, not even aware that I was still holding the glass in my hands. I could hear him scream but I was beyond caring. I carried on striking at him. The next thing I knew the police were at the door and I was taken away from the blood-splattered kitchen.

I’d never felt anger like that before or since, anger so raw it took my breath away. Yet now, sitting in this tiny cell, my knees pressed up to my chest, I feel it all dissipate. There is nothing left to rage against, nothing to run away from.

EPILOGUE

Lisa

London, 25 September 2019

The brightly coloured room has been designed with children in mind. There’s a mural of cartoon characters running the length of the wall, soft yellow beanbags dotted around the floor amid piles of toys and books. This is what is known as a safe space, a neutral place where Joe and I can get to know each other again, away from any distractions. I sit on a beanbag, clutching a cup of tepid coffee in my hands, and watch as Joe pieces together an impressive Lego castle. His little face is focused intently on the task in hand and I feel, not for the first time, that he is barely aware of my presence. Still, these things take time according to my social worker, Lynn. Joe has been through a huge ordeal, his foundations and trust have been shattered. Now it’s up to me to be patient, to let him heal, let us all heal.

For absconding with Joe last Christmas I received a suspended sentence on the condition that I attend regular counselling sessions. So for the last six months I have sat in the tasteful but neutral office of Dr Rose Newton, a tiny, birdlike woman with large green eyes that sometimes seem like they are boring into my soul. It took me a while to open up to her, to myself, but slowly, bit by bit, I can feel myself returning to the girl I was before my father died. The girl who believed in magic and happiness and the power that comes from just being herself. Dad was the first person I spoke about to Dr Rose; his presence was everywhere as I described my grief at his death, the empty space I thought could never be filled, until the day I held my newborn son in my arms. It was painful to open up about my grief like that but now I can feel myself slowly letting Dad go, trusting in my own abilities. You could say I’m ready to face life now, ready to be a grown-up. My father was right. I can do it.