She lowers her voice. “I asked him if he’d had a fling with Nina.”

I glance at the closed study door as if Stuart could be on the other side, listening.

“Talk about an OTT reaction! He was furious. I’m scared.”

“I’ll find out what Greg knows. It sounds as if he’s just put two and two together and come up with—”

“Exactly four,” says Camilla.

“He can’t have proof,” I say.

“What if Nina gave him some, even if she didn’t realize it?”

“I have an idea...”

Camilla throws me a look of such hopeful gratitude, that—briefly—I forget how much I detest her.

I phone Greg.

“I have a favor to ask,” I say.

He agrees.

I will keep my plans a secret until Sunday. Meanwhile, Stuart fusses. He opens and closes windows, drapes blankets on and off Jack. He cooks healthy stir-fries when I just want to eat a pack of cookies or a bowl of cereal. The children show intermittent interest in their half sibling. It takes all my willpower not to shoo them away from Jack. He looks so fragile in comparison.

Deborah comes in and takes over for hours at a time. I let her.

Stuart keeps trying to tell me “how to do it.”

Midwives visit and give me forms to fill in to ascertain whether or not I am at risk of postnatal depression. I am not. I know what depression feels like and this isn’t it.

But something isn’t right.

There’s an expectation to be happy after having a baby. I am not over the moon. I am anchorless, fearful and in a constant state of fight-or-flight.

I write charts, religiously figuring out how much sleep I haven’t had. Naturally, it’s unhelpful, but I can’t stop myself. When painkillers ease off between doses, barely controllable anger flares, which I know is wrong because I have a healthy baby. I must be more grateful. Flashbacks start one night and increase in intensity.

The agony.

The shortage of midwives.

Being alone with no clue what was happening, I think my baby and I are dying but no one has told me.

Seemingly insignificant little things all seem to add up, one on top of the other.

Young trainees are sent in each evening to ease the burden of the exhausted staff, one of whom picked up Jack when he started to cry, held him upright and, staring at him, said, “Not on my watch!” gripping him as though she were about to give him a shake.

Why didn’t I tell her to put my baby down?

The casual cruelty and lack of empathy still leaves me reeling.

Why didn’t I speak up, stand up for myself more?

Other women manage to give birth without drugs, without fuss, breastfeed without being curtly told, “It’s not that difficult.”

I become obsessed with thoughts of old, vulnerable and sick people and other pregnant women, wondering what I can do to save them.

I encourage the steady stream of visitors at home because without distractions, my thoughts threaten to tip me over the edge. I consider calling Christian for an emergency phone consultation, but no one can help me but me. I must keep busy.