‘I thought I heard something,’ my voice wobbles. ‘And when I looked outside there was…’

Movement.

Him.

‘I can’t see anything now, though.’

George stands by my side. ‘Just because they’ve released him doesn’t mean you need to feel—’

‘I know.’ I don’t need to feel unsafe, but I do. That man has ruined my life. When he was contained in a prison cell, guarded by officers, I could almost, almost pretend he didn’t exist. Now he’s back out there somewhere. He could be one hundred miles away.

One mile away.

Staring at me right now.

I have no way of knowing.

‘Are you going out tonight?’ I ask.

‘I did say to a client…’ George begins. I meet his eyes and his gaze flickers to the flowers he had given me, which now sprout from a bright yellow jug on our coffee table. ‘Do you want me to stay here, Leah?’

‘Yes, please,’ I say, adding hurriedly, ‘it isn’t because I’m scared to be alone.’ It’s partly because I’m scared to be alone. ‘It’s… I’m worried about you, George.’

A flicker of surprise passes across his face. It’s horrible it’s such a shock to him that I’ve been thinking of something other than myself, my sisters, the anniversary. Despite everything, I love my husband with all my heart and it seems he has lost sight of that. We have both lost sight of that. I sit on the sofa, patting the space next to me.

He cautiously settles himself. ‘I’m… okay.’

‘I miss you. Archie misses you. We miss our family movie evenings.’ Finding Nemo and buttery popcorn. ‘And our games nights.’ Hungry Hippos while Archie was awake and once he’d gone to bed, cards. Red wine and cheese and crackers. Olives. Folk music streaming through the Bose. Dylan urging ‘Don’t Think Twice’ as I arranged my cards into suits and tried to second-guess what George would be collecting.

‘It’s been… hard.’

I think he means I’ve been hard, but I wait for him to elaborate.

‘The business isn’t doing great,’ he says eventually. ‘I’m doing all I can but… I’m sorry, Leah.’ His eyes are sad, bordered with fine lines that hadn’t been there months before. When was the last time I had really looked at him? There is a groove on the bridge of his nose, wrinkles forming on his forehead. Each one of them telling the story, the story of us.

‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’ I know I have a hundred apologies to make to a hundred different people and even then, it won’t be enough. I hate the way I’ve made him cross lately – wearing the gloves, restarting my rituals – and I hate the way he has to fight to keep his feelings in check for fear of upsetting me. I only pick up on his anger from his body language, never his voice. I’ve let him down.

‘I’ve let you down…’ His voice cracks, along with my heart. I can’t let him stagger under the weight of our family alone any more. It is breaking him apart. Emotions flicker in his eyes and I know how conflicted he is. It must be awful to leave your warm house, on cold nights, to schmooze with clients when you’d rather be reading a bedtime story to your child. Snuggled up on the sofa with your wife. Knowing that whatever you are doing, it still isn’t enough. I have it easy, the one who stays home in the evenings. Who works part-time. That’s one thing I can change, right now.