I feel overwhelmed and sit down on the edge of the bed and focus on Lily, who seems to be enraptured with the discovery that she has feet.

The bed dips as Alex sits beside me and takes my hand. ‘We’ll get through it,’ he says and I lean my head on his shoulder.

‘Do you think people will think we’re awful for not having the wake here?’ I ask, looking around me.

‘In a boxy two-bedroom new build with a tiny baby to mind? No, I don’t think people will.’

I take a deep breath. ‘I know I shouldn’t care what people think, but I do.’

‘Do you think any less of Ciara for not offering to hold the wake in her house?’ Alex asks.

I shake my head. Of course I don’t. But that’s different. Ciara is different. No one would expect it of her, even though she was his biological daughter. Me, though? I’ve been told for the past two decades that I’m so lucky that Joe stayed to look after me. That I must owe him a debt of gratitude.

Those people don’t know the truth, though.

I glance down at Lily again on the floor. Her eyes meet mine and she breaks into one of her heart-melting smiles. I feel a wave of emotion rise up in me and I start to cry, immediately annoyed at myself for not holding it together. I can’t fall apart – not at this stage. I just have to get through the next few days, then this whole ordeal will be over.

‘I’ll put some soup on,’ Alex says. ‘You need to eat something, keep your strength up. I’ll take this little madam with me too, so she doesn’t distract you further.’

He reaches for our daughter and lifts her tenderly into his arms. Her smile is instant, her head curling in against his chest. His love for her is so pure it makes my breath catch in my chest. I reach over and stroke the soft, fair, fluffy hair on her head. I know I’d do anything to protect her. To keep her safe.

The phone rings downstairs. It has been ringing all morning and each time I have jumped. I’m tired and it’s too loud. Too shrill. The voices on the other end of the line too false. More wanting to know the gossip than genuinely sympathising. The news hasn’t taken long to spread. It never does. Not in Derry. I want to pull the landline out. Most people I know don’t have them any more anyway.

I hear the low tone of Alex’s voice as he answers. His words muffled and indistinct through the closed door. I hear his feet on the stairs, watch the door for him to open it and impart whatever news he has. So and so sends their sympathy. If there is anything they can do, et cetera, et cetera.

But his face looks different when I see him. It’s as if he has faded in the few minutes we’ve been apart. He is pale. Looks shaken. I don’t like this. It reminds me of his face last night, when I saw him on the stairs.