‘He was our son, Andrew.’ My eyes fill with tears. ‘How dare you use his death to manipulate me.’

His eyes narrow. ‘There’s no manipulation going on. The trouble with the truth is that sadly, for you, it hurts.’

I can’t remember the last time we had a conversation that didn’t disintegrate into a fight. He’s goading me again, but I stand my ground. ‘Let’s talk to the police about what happened that day. Give them the facts.’ I stare at him. Unable to tolerate more of Andrew’s behaviour, the obvious solution is to lay my cards on the table and let someone else form a judgement.

‘You’re mad. You do know that, don’t you?’ His voice is scornful. ‘Any psychiatrist worth his salt would have a field day with you.’

But again I don’t respond. It’s what he always says when he senses he’s losing ground. ‘We both know I’m not.’ As our eyes meet, this time the shift between us is palpable. No longer can he cow me into acquiescence, just as he no longer has the moral high ground. I can tell from his hesitation that Andrew’s not as sure as he usually is. ‘If you pull that one, I’ll get an independent assessment from someone out of the area. Don’t fuck with me, Andrew. I’ve had enough.’

Without bothering to look at him to see the impact my words have had, I fetch my jacket and go outside, needing to remove myself from his toxic presence, to stand in fresh air and cleanse my lungs. Walking across the grass to a more hidden corner of the garden, I realise how desperate I am for a sense of calm in my world. In the dusk, a white clematis stands out. Just coming into flower, its delicate stems trail over the wall, its daisy-like flowers softening the stone. Further on, I see the first of the pale roses are blooming. For a transient moment, their fragrance reaches me, a scent that takes me back to my childhood, as a nostalgic desire for the past fills me – for days when life was simple.

Suddenly, I realise how few people there are in my life. But Andrew destroyed my relationships one by one in his escalating need for power over me. For years, I’ve hidden from everyone, cutting myself off because it’s easier than justifying his behaviour, explaining why I stay with him. Without any allies to turn to and nowhere else to go, Andrew’s control was absolute – and it’s taken until now for me to see it.

Nostalgia hits me again. If only there was someone I could talk to who would understand what’s going on. But this is how the abuser–victim relationship works; why Andrew holds the trump card. Because of him, I have no-one.

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