She looks at me for the first time that day. She is accusing me. Suddenly it’s as if I’m fourteen again and this precocious nine-year-old with the awful haircut is looking up at me, looking so needy and pathetic and wrapped up in her own selfish world.

I blush purple. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, the words sticking in my throat. I am mortified. ‘So very sorry. I was a bitch. I’m such a bitch. I was just angry and hurt and wanted to hit out at someone or something …’

‘At me,’ she says, glaring at me. ‘You wanted to hit out at me. You’ve always wanted to hit out at me. For whatever I did to you. I thought we might be past it now, but the last few days … nothing has changed, has it? You’ve not changed. You’ve not matured. You’re as spiteful and manipulative as you ever were. You’re still all about playing mind games.’

‘I broke the doll and I’m sorry for that. I really am. But I’ve not been playing any games. Not this time. Look,’ I say, ‘I just want to get this over with as much as you do. Can we just do that? There’s been enough hurt.’

‘Really? We’ve finally reached a limit? Good to know after all these years we’ve crossed that hallowed threshold. We just needed to blame missing prayer books on me, talk about me behind my back to my husband and have my mother’s grave opened against my wishes.’

Her eyes are flashing with anger, her voice harsh. Lily is starting to stir in her chair, no doubt disturbed by the angry tone of her mother.

‘Heidi, the prayer book was in your bag. I found it there. I didn’t disregard your wishes. I didn’t know them. Everything was so messed up. I’ve apologised for breaking your doll. If I could turn back time … And yes, I’ve talked about you behind your back, but I’m sure you’ve said a few choice words too, about me.’

She shakes her head. ‘Why are you lying? Why do you keep lying? Why can’t you just admit it was you who killed him and you’ve been doing everything in your power to point the finger of blame at me since?’

I see her body tense, her hands ball into fists. I fear she won’t stop herself from lashing out this time.

Before I know it she is lunging at me, pushing me as hard and fast as she can against the wall. My back hits the plasterwork first, my head second – a sickening thud, the force of which causes me to bite into my tongue. I taste blood, feel my legs buckle. I try to centre myself, looking up to see her glaring at me, a fist raised, poised to come at me. I lift my hands, block her assault. Scream at her to stop.

She lashes out again, furiously. I can see she is crying.

‘You’re making everyone think I’m mad. You’re turning my own husband against me. You have to stop! You have to stop!’