‘We can make it work, Jim. It’s what I need, it makes sense to me. It would make me so happy.’

‘You need a hobby. Volunteer at the church. Let’s get another dog.’

‘I’m not ready for another dog. And I have hobbies—tennis, bridge. I’m sick of keeping busy for the sake of it. I need a purpose. My whole life I’ve been looking for something like this.’ He shook his head, turning over in our bed, his back to me. I watched him pull his book off his nightstand, get up and walk into his study to read. He didn’t return to our bed that night. I stayed awake for hours, looking at the booklet again, the newsletter. I fell asleep thinking of the way udders had felt in my palms as a girl, the press of a wet nose against the back of my knee.

For two weeks I didn’t speak to him. I cooked the meals, cleaned the house and looked after the children but a smile didn’t cross my face and no lighthearted words left my lips. I asked Caroline and Andy about their days before he came home from work, helped them with their schoolwork, vacuumed the house and ironed his shirts. I did not kiss him goodbye in the morning or hello in the evenings. I turned off my light and pretended to be asleep before he came to bed. I began to work on my application in the empty hours of the day, forgoing tennis, skipping bridge. One afternoon after school Caroline asked me what was wrong, folding her long skinny legs beneath her on the sofa beside me. She was all elbows and knees, narrow-faced with big eyes. ‘Why are you mad at Daddy?’ she asked matter-of-factly, twisting a strand of brown hair around a finger so tightly the skin whitened.

‘What do you mean?’ I was hemming one of her skirts, and the needle was too blunt for the stiff fabric. I jammed it through and pricked my index finger. ‘Ouch!’

‘You seem mad at him,’ she replied. Caroline was so similar to Jim, both in colouring and in temperament, and the two had a connection that went beyond words. There were times I felt they could read each other’s minds. ‘Do you want me to find you a thimble?’

‘I want you to learn to do your own hemming, is what I want,’ I snapped. Immediately I felt awful. She looked up at me through her thick brown lashes, blinking back the tears pooling in her eyes. I put down the hemming and pulled her in close, kissing the top of her head. It smelled like sun-dried leaves at the tail end of summer. Her body curled against me, and I shut my eyes tight.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, thinking of my own mother. ‘There’s nothing at all the matter.’