And there it was. I just sat looking at the test for ages, disbelieving. It can’t be. Oh my God. What what what. I tried to count. There’d been Nick, of course, the obligatory monthly ordeal I was fairly sure was too late in the cycle. Then you. And we’d been careful – but not that careful. Nothing about this was really careful. Then it came to me, sitting on the toilet with my jeans round my ankles – I would tell you. I would see what you said. This could be our saving, both of us. A child. My heart swelled with fear and possibility. This was the way out of my life. I had been sure of it. But look at me now; I was even more trapped than before.

Nick had been so pleased when I said I was pregnant. I’d told him while passing through the room, trying to drop the words on to his lap without looking him in the eye: ‘My period’s late, by the way.’

He caught my arm. ‘How late?’

‘Um . . . not sure. A few weeks.’ He would have figured it out soon, so I had to tell him, even before I’d found the courage to tell you. He watched me like a hawk. He’d notice if I didn’t put tampons on the shopping list. You, I would not tell for another three months, as I hedged my bets and tried desperately to work out what to do.

Sometimes, when you think about the facts of your own life, or you speak them aloud to a friend, you catch yourself for a moment – Is that really true? There was me, feisty feminist Suzi, and I couldn’t even buy tampons unnoticed because we had a joint account and I didn’t earn and he did all the shopping because it was too far to walk to a shop and we only had one car, and even if we did online delivery he’d insist on checking the receipts for things they might have forgotten.

That morning, he drove to the shops to get the pregnancy test – he was late for work but he didn’t even care. Flexitime, he said. First I’d heard of it. He stood over me while I peed on it and we waited. I already knew what it would say, but I was still praying hard, please please please, although I didn’t know what I was praying for. A pink line. A fork in the road. A guillotine fall. These are the things that change your life.

The doctor – a brisk middle-aged woman with unflattering plum lipstick and dog hairs on her skirt – was kind enough. ‘I understand you’re having some issues, Suzanne?’

Nick had come in with me. I wondered if I was allowed to ask that he leave the room. How would that look though? ‘I’m fine,’ I said, wearily. ‘Just tired is all.’