I look at Julia and she smiles. ‘Something to help you remember your time here.’

I tug at the bow and open the box and pull out a large silver photo frame with three separate photos in it. In one, Léa and Luca are having a water fight in the paddling pool in the garden, me in the background looking on and laughing. I remember that day well. It was in my first week here, one afternoon when Maria was home. I hadn’t realised she’d taken it. The second photo is of me and the kids in the mountains; it must have been taken by Michel, just before Luca fell. We’re sitting on the grass eating bread and cheese, the lake spread out far below us. I’m red-faced but smiling. Léa is snuggled up to me, her head on my arm. The third is of the two kids alone; they’re standing by the pool at Pully getting ready to jump in, both pulling faces and trying not to laugh. I took it myself and Whatsapped it to Julia one day because I thought it was funny – and because I wanted to show her what she was missing out on, I recall with a flash of guilt.

‘You’ve given them some good times this summer,’ Julia says. ‘They’re going to miss you. We all will.’

I look at the photos and feel a lump rise up in my throat. There have been some good times, but I’ve been so wrapped up in my own dramas that I almost didn’t notice. I came to Switzerland not only to find out about my past, but for a break from my messed-up life in London, for my Swiss cure. And I know that, somewhere along the way, that’s what I’ve had. As well as mourning my broken marriage, obsessing over Julia’s imagined perfection, tracking down Daniel and Anna, I’ve sunned myself on the most wonderful lakeshore, hiked up mountains to see views I’d never even thought could exist, watched music in the park at the world’s most famous jazz festival and laughed with two little kids who got me smiling even when I didn’t feel I had anything to smile for.

‘I’m going to miss you all too,’ I say, ‘I really will.’

Léa starts to cry and buries her face in my stomach. ‘Don’t go, Jess. Can’t you stay?’

I shake my head. ‘You’re going back to school next week. And I have to go home,’ I say. ‘I have some things I need to do.’

‘But you must come back,’ Michel says. ‘You’re welcome any time.’

‘Maybe next summer?’ Julia suggests. A wave of shame floods through me. After the way I’ve been with her, after my terrible behaviour and my even worse thoughts, she would still have me back.