“Hi, Stu,” I say.

I’ve still not been able to come up with anything more original, despite trying. Most words stick.

“Deborah’s been on the phone,” he says. “She wants to mark the occasion with the children on Monday.”

I am a terrible person. How could I forget the anniversary of Nina’s death? How?

“Good idea.”

I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to chat to her privately, but with a bit of persistence, I’m sure I’ll manage. I feel a surge of fresh determination to build bridges with her.

“She wants me and the children to visit Nina’s grave and spend the day together.”

Silence alerts me to my misunderstanding.

“Without me.”

“Without you.”

The average time for a widower to start a relationship with another woman is a year, which I recall from my patchy online research and blog-reading. So, according to the average, I should no longer be treated as though I’m some sort of pantomime homewrecker. Right now, I despise Stuart’s weakness for not standing up for us just because I fit with some negative narrative. He’s ashamed, however much he won’t admit it.

It suits him, I realize, that I get the blame for leading him astray. Most of the horrible messages and cards refer to me in some derogatory way. For Stuart, it’s casseroles, offers to take his suits to the dry cleaner’s and to walk the kids to school. For me, it’s death threats and requests for favors. No wonder he isn’t bothered about dealing with it. He’s ashamed, and I’ve allowed him to dump all his shame on me, too. No more! Rage hits.

“No! You, the children and Deborah can have an hour or two together alone. After that, we do something together. I’m your wife. I’m carrying our child. It’s about time I’m treated better than someone who has to hide in the shadows and only be allowed to step out when it’s deemed socially acceptable by someone else. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

It’s the brief silence at the end of the phone before he launches into his Stuart-type platitudes that tips me over the edge. Spite pours from my mouth before I can stop.

“We all know that she was far from bloody perfect. Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives?”

“Watch what you say.”

His voice is harsh. All traces of kind, amenable Stuart have gone.

God, I can’t face a drawn-out row. As I struggle to come up with a response I won’t regret, icy dread grips. I can’t see or hear Goldie.

“Goldie!” I yell. “Goldie!”

I listen for sounds of her rustling through the undergrowth.

Silence.

A plane passes above.

“Goldie! I can’t see her. I have to go.”

I hang up. Panic. I know my motivation in getting a dog to join my family was misguided, but I adore her now. None of us can take any more loss.

I hear barking. I can’t tell if it’s Goldie’s or not. I stride forward until I reach a clearing near the river.