In public, I was developing a peculiar jolting laugh that had nothing to do with what I was saying or feeling. And what I was saying had nothing to do with what I was feeling. I was ghostly, wearing this strange brave face: at the school gates, in Sainsbury’s, on soccer sidelines, on the street. But any small rudeness was enough to let them see. I was floored by a stranger’s car horn, an unfriendly look, a passing comment or a mistimed jostle on the pavement; the tears would spring to my eyes. I had never felt this fragile; my edges were bone china‒thin.

Usually I would have had my mother to run to, to shelter me, to put my pain in perspective with her wonderful words and unflinching love: this is just a chapter in the novel of your life, darling, adding depth and intrigue, challenges to be overcome, etc. But confiding in my mother was out of the question now, the Alzheimer’s made her a liability in front of the children. I missed her so much, Dr. R, my mother from before. The sad thing is, when you are most vulnerable, most in need of friendship and contact, you are in the weakest place to ask for it. I couldn’t confide in anyone. It was too close to home; there was too much at stake. The possibility that the children might overhear a careless comment, a fragment of gossip that could crush their world, was too much to entertain. My silence was vital.