I stop. This is hard, really hard, because I’m balancing the truth with my less-decent motivations. It wasn’t my fault that Nina fell ill and died. I do love her children. Those are true. Everything else blurs into grabbed, sometimes slightly murky, opportunities.

“I thought that if I led her life, I’d have her confidence,” I say. “And by confidence, I mean that sense of feeling like I’m living the right sort of life.”

I give up. I’m even confusing myself.

“You’ve talked about the holiday you had together a fair amount here,” Christian prompts.

I look up in surprise. He rarely does that. He lets me meander until something of potential interest manifests and then I sense that we both grab it in gratitude and go with it. I must have done a good job of boring him, too.

“There’s nothing left to say about it. I’ve told you everything,” I lie.

“I got the impression that you also held Nina, as well as Camilla, responsible for the loss of a man you fell deeply and quickly for.”

“Do you write notes?” I say.

Paranoia at some of my innermost thoughts and secrets being held in Christian’s cloud somewhere sends a wave of panic right through me. I clutch my stomach and smooth it down to calm my baby in case he’s sensed my fear.

“Very basic ones, like we’ve discussed,” he says. “There’s nothing in them that would be able to identify you in any way.”

It doesn’t reassure me. I reel back, trying to recall everything I’ve ever told him, told Judy, told all the therapists over the years. I can’t remember all the details.

“Did I tell you that Charlie died?”

“I assumed as much. I am sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I stand up. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ll be in touch...after the baby. If I can.”

“We can arrange to talk on the phone any time, if it helps,” he says.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say.

I mean it.

On the way home, I make a detour. I want to explain out loud what I couldn’t bring myself to go over with Christian. My mother is the best person to talk to, but I don’t want Pam or my dad overhearing.

I do something I’m ashamed to say I’ve never done. I offer to look after her. Alone. I should’ve done it many times, offered to give Dad a break. But something stopped me, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Her diagnosis was such a shock, such a drawn-out loss, that I couldn’t deal with it head-on.

“What’s the catch?” my dad says.

I don’t blame him.

Alone, just me and Mum, I go back there. To ten years ago. I need to go through the past in detail, to take myself back, to remind me why I made the decision I did. Even though hindsight isn’t necessarily useful; it makes me want to kick myself in frustration.

She smiles in a way that I choose to interpret as encouragement. I take out my journal, which I’ve rewritten in an attempt to make it sound more like a story for her, and read aloud.