The registrar’s opening speech is interminable. I stare at Adrian, thinking how like Thoby he looks. Your face is screened by your hat. I cannot tell how you are feeling. When it comes to the exchange of rings I crane forward. I watch Leonard fit the band of gold onto your finger. You turn toward him then and smile, and the look of tenderness in your eyes is unmistakable. I stand up.

“I wonder if I might ask a question?”

There is a moment’s silence as heads turn to see who has spoken. The registrar’s eyes travel the room, searching for the source of the interruption. When they find me, his brows knit together in an irate furrow. I have no choice but to press on.

“I wish to change my son’s name. I would be obliged if you could advise me of the correct procedure.”

How long the days seemed while you were away. I thought about you constantly. I found a map and followed your journey, picturing your bus ride to the top of Mount Serrat, the two of you sailing into Marseilles. I saw you breakfasting in unfamiliar dining rooms, planning out your day’s excursion. In bed, at night, I imagined you clasped in Leonard’s arms.

To distract myself, I decided to work on a self-portrait. I set a mirror next to my easel and stared into it for some time, studying the hairline creases that had appeared in my brow, the slight sag of my jaw. I could not deny the telltale signs of aging.

Then the first letters arrived. Your descriptions of the French countryside enchanted me. Your account of your travel sickness and Leonard’s stoic ability to eat pickled gherkins had me holding my sides in mirth. Once I had got over my delight at hearing from you, I searched your phrases for more intimate details. I puzzled over your references to Leonard, uncertain how to read them. Leonard’s letters gave me my answer. They were detailed, frank, and unflinching. You appeared to find lovemaking unappealing, Leonard wrote, and he wondered if I had any advice. I replied immediately. I told him you had always been physically unresponsive, especially with men. I told him I did not think he could change you. That day, I worked on my portrait with renewed energy. When I looked in the mirror it seemed to me my face had regained its bloom.

In many ways, Leonard was Mother’s apotheosis. A man of action as well as words, he commanded respect. How different things might have been if, instead of persuading him he was not to blame, I had encouraged him to unbend a little. Perhaps, if I had been more generous, I might have helped him find the confidence to explore. As it was, my words confirmed his fears, and steered you toward a sexless marriage. Fate was to punish me for this.