True to his word – albeit a month on from when it was promised – Spencer has arrived for a visit home. Now the worst of the Estelle crisis seems to be over, it’s wonderful to see him. He fills our house with his big, loud laugh and extravagant stories about gigs he’s worked on, and I love it. He has brought his girlfriend, Millie, a sassy girl who can unearth a ratty old lime green satin bedspread in a charity shop and make a fabulous skirt out of it.

She has a finely boned face and a mane of crinkly light brown hair. Izzy is transfixed – despite the fact that we’ve met her several times before – and trots around with her, chatting incessantly. As I look around at the five of us all here together in our sun-filled kitchen, it seems incredible that, barely more than a month ago, I was reading those awful texts in the garden.

As usual, Spencer gave us hardly any notice that he was driving up to Glasgow. He just called from a service station to say he was on his way and would be here in an hour or so – and he didn’t even mention that Millie was with him. As we had little food in, I panicked; I like being able to put on a big feast when he’s here. ‘Just make your omelettes,’ he said, and so that’s what I’m doing (they’re his favourite anyway).

‘How’s the pellet business, Mum?’ he asks cheekily as I bring a huge bowl of home-made fat golden chips to the table, and we all sit down.

‘It’s completely thrilling,’ I reply with a smile.

Spencer fixes me with a look. His blue eyes are bright behind his black-framed spectacles, and now I’m starting to wonder whether he’s noticed that something has happened since we saw him last.

‘You should get back into theatre again,’ he says. ‘Do something you love, Mum. You’re wasted in that place.’

‘Oh, you definitely should,’ Millie agrees. She is a performance artist who seems to do a bit of everything – dance, spoken word, poetry – and is a regular fixture at the Edinburgh Fringe. It astounds me how together and confident she is at twenty years old.

‘Who says I don’t love what I do?’ I say with a smile, knowing there’s no point in explaining that, at my stage of life, manageable working hours are perhaps more valuable than what Spencer would term as ‘following your passion’. When does it happen, this decision to veer down the sensible route?

‘Can I show Millie my clothes?’ Izzy asks, the instant we’ve finished eating. She adores dressing up.

‘Yes, of course,’ I say, my heart soaring as the two of them disappear together.

Spencer picks out a few more chips from the bowl. ‘That was lovely, Mum. You make the best omelettes in the world.’