‘The sheep that didn’t want to see Jesus. The story’s called The Grumpy Sheep. The part I play is the grumpy sheep. It’s in the Bible.’

‘Scout’s Nativity play,’ I said. ‘At Christmas. I’m not sure the grumpy sheep is in the Bible, angel.’

‘Daddy’s going to make my costume.’

Anne raised an eyebrow. ‘Good luck with that,’ she said.

It was time to go. There were promises to see Scout soon. Promises to come again. Promises to have her down, and put her up, and show her a good time. Talk of baby brother and unborn sister that meant nothing to Scout. Promises, promises. If they were kept then everything would be better. Not perfect. Not remade. But better.

And, despite everything that had happened, I knew that Anne loved Scout. But she hadn’t made space for her in the new life, with the new man, in the new place. And unless and until she did, Scout would be lost to her, and our beautiful daughter would carry those wounds with her for ever.

‘Oh,’ Anne said. ‘There was a young woman waiting for you downstairs.’

‘I get that a lot,’ I said.

‘I can believe it,’ Anne said, walking away from us and back to her new family, her new life. ‘They probably like your dog.’

‘Hello, Sick Note,’ Wren said. ‘I thought you were never going to let me in. What’s wrong with you now?’

‘Torn internal intercostal muscles,’ I said.

Wren shook her head. ‘You’re going to have to give me a clue.’

‘The intercostal muscles lift your ribcage when you inhale and exhale.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Only when I breathe.’

‘We missed you at Mallory’s funeral. It would have been good if you were there, Max. His wife, Margaret, she was asking after you.’

I hung my head and choked something down. ‘I can’t see her,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

‘You don’t have to say anything, stupid.’

Scout and Stan came out to meet her.

‘His hair is the same colour as mine!’ Wren told Scout.

All three of them were delighted. Stan began hopping around. Wren offered him the back of her hand to sniff before she started stroking him, and I could tell she was raised around dogs.

‘What’s your name?’ Scout asked.

‘Edie,’ Wren replied.

‘Look at this, Edie,’ Scout said. And then to Stan, ‘Play dead.’

Stan flopped down on his side, his head lifted from the ground, his eyes wide open and fixed on the Nature’s Menu chicken treats gripped in Scout’s little fist. He licked his lips. His head quivered with anticipation. In truth, he didn’t look very dead. He didn’t even look sleepy.

‘That . . . is . . . incredible,’ Wren said. ‘Never seen anything like it. The pair of you should be on TV. Whatever that show’s called. Well done.’