Talking about it now, something strikes me. ‘Between you and me, it might have been nice to have seen a little more remorse from them. Some prolonged contrition wouldn’t have gone amiss, or at least some hearty acknowledgement of my magnificent benevolence . . .’

She smiles and nods. I love it when I make her smile. ‘But no, now they were absolved of their sins, they laughed and capered, seemingly impervious to any pain inflicted. So I licked my wounds in private with my sugary Lorazepamed tongue . . .’

‘Admirable, Connie. Well done you.’

I flounder. Her empathy feels like small hands squeezing my throat, making my eyes water. I don’t want to cry. Sometimes I worry that if I start to cry I’ll never stop. ‘The truth is I loved them, Dr. R. And this way, I still had them in my life. I hadn’t lost them.’

‘I understand,’ she says. She is smiling; she looks tired. I want to please her.

‘Sorry, yes. That day. I woke up with these terrible period pains. You know the kind, that every-other-month ovary that’s a killer. I was feeling really groggy and bleeding copiously. It had gone on the sheets, down my legs, on the carpet. Even after thirty-five years of menstruating, it still takes me by surprise every month. You have to understand, maybe you do, that even something as normal as a period demanded difficult decisions to be made – what order things should be done in – and my medication made me feel pretty numbed much of the time. I felt quite pleased with myself dealing with it all: sanitary wear, washing machine, carpet cleaner, ibuprofens, hot-water bottle down my granny pants.