They’ve kept asking me about my relationship with him. How had we got along? Had there been tension between us? They say things must be stressful for me, with a small baby and now losing my father. I don’t correct them that I have never considered him my father, in any sense of the word.

They’ve asked me repeatedly about the house. Did I really have plans to sell it as soon as possible? They’ve asked about my mental health, any medication I’m on. But I’m not on medication just now. I’ve not been on medication for seven or eight years. I’ve been coping on my own. Doing well. And when I was sick, I directed all my self-loathing towards myself and only myself. I’ve never hurt anyone. I wouldn’t.

They’ve asked if Joe had wanted me to help him die. If I thought someone might have helped him to end his life. I snort. While there was breath in his body, Joe McKee would have wanted to suck up whatever attention and sympathy he could muster. He wouldn’t have willingly skipped out on his grand finale.

Alex has gone to work today to ‘finish some urgent paperwork’ and he couldn’t wait to leave the house this morning. He’ll be back as soon as he can, he says, but I have a feeling I won’t see him for hours and as he’s my only ally in the house, being without him there is too difficult.

After another round of questioning this morning, I’d called him and told him how I felt as if the walls were closing in on me. He said I was being paranoid. But I can hear something in his voice. Worry, or suspicion, maybe.

People stop talking when I walk into the room. I know what that means. I know who they are talking about.

I’m afraid to kick off. Afraid to fight my corner. Afraid to show any sort of strong emotion in case it feeds the narrative that I’m unhinged. What had been a stressful situation to begin with had now become almost unbearable.

So I’d rather face the cold than go home, even though it’s threatening to rain and I should have worn a heavier coat. Keeping moving helps, you see. I focus on what I see, smell and hear. Keep mindful of the exact moment I’m in and ignore the bigger picture because I fear it will overwhelm me if I let it.

When my hands are so cold they start to turn blue, I push Lily’s pram into a nearby coffee shop and order a large latte. I catch my reflection in the window. I look old and haggard. Unkempt, with the dressing still on my hand. My other hand bruised and grazed from my run-in with the peeler. Dark circles under my eyes. No make-up, not that it could perform the miracle I need it to if I’m to look more human.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ the waitress asks as she puts the coffee down in front of me.