‘Can you lay the table, honey?’ My tone is light.

Without speaking, Niamh sets three places at the kitchen table then fetches the peppermill and water glasses.

‘Do you have much homework?’

‘Not really.’ Niamh’s voice is expressionless as she comes over and peers into the pan I’m stirring.

It pulls at my heartstrings to see her like this, to know that the poisonous exchanges between me and Andrew reach her ears, too. ‘Pork,’ I tell her, suddenly aching for connection, for a joking aside, an affectionate exchange, but Niamh and I are not like that. She’s inherited the same detached coldness that’s my defence against Andrew. ‘Would you like to tell him it’s ready?’

Without speaking, Niamh wanders out of the kitchen to find her father, and I wonder what’s going through her mind as I start serving food onto plates. She comes back then, followed by Andrew. After pouring himself a glass of wine, he picks up a plate and a fork and goes back to the living room.

It’s a pattern I’ve grown used to, but today rage flares inside me at his deliberate contempt. Stifling the urge to tell him what I think, I take the two remaining plates over to the table as Niamh joins me. Sitting there, picking at my food, I watch her eat. I’m filled with resentment that Andrew’s behaviour dominates everything in this house – including Niamh. He doesn’t care about either of us.

Until now, I’ve forced myself to tolerate his behaviour, wanting to hold our marriage together for Niamh, believing it’s better for her that Andrew and I are together, hoping that he might miraculously change. I’ve refused to accept that he isn’t going to, because once I do that, I become a woman who knowingly chooses to remain in an abusive marriage.

So you’re not denying it? That Andrew’s bullied away what love there was, betrayed your trust. How much longer can you keep this up? There is only contempt between you. He doesn’t care about your marriage any more than you do.

For the first time I see myself as others might see me, and something snaps. After eating, I wait for Niamh to go up to her bedroom, for the sound of her TV to filter through her cracked-open door, and then I go to find Andrew in the living room.

It’s a large room with high ceilings and a row of three sash windows that look out onto the garden. He’s slouched on the sofa, his empty plate on the coffee table, his shoes kicked off, his attention focused on his phone. In the home we share, having eaten the meal I cooked for him, he’s blatantly ignoring me and texting her.

Pushing the door closed behind me, I walk over and stand in front of him.

‘Not now,’ he says sharply.