“I read something once,” I tell Adam. As soon as I’ve said it, I regret it.

“What?”

“You’ll think I’m trying to make an excuse.”

“No, I won’t. Even if I do, it might be quite a relief. I’m not sure I can take extreme hair shirt for much longer.” Adam grins at me. When I look at his face, I see that he is upset—more so than he’s willing to admit. He’s trying to protect me from his pain, because he can see mine growing in me and it scares him.

“I read that people who have judgmental, controlling parents . . . that they kind of . . .” How I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. It’s a daft theory. Adam will laugh. “That they sexualize bad behavior, in their minds. They grow up being criticized for everything they do, because it’s not what the parents would ideally like them to do, and . . . it’s hard to live with the daily attacks of a parent determined to improve you. Hard for a child—even an older teenage child—to cope with that kind of onslaught when their only crime is just trying to be themselves.” Even an adult child. “So their minds sort of warp, to defend against too much pain. They twist their perceptions so that they get pleasure from the idea that they’re being bad and that people would disapprove. They sexualize wrongdoing. They become the people who get kicks out of illicit affairs. But . . . it’s just a theory. One that’s obviously hugely convenient for sinners like me.”

“Sounds plausible, I suppose,” says Adam. “Look, on the subject of difficult parents . . . I know yours can be irritating, but you didn’t mean what you said, did you? About never seeing them again? I hope you didn’t.”

“No.” Yes. But without Adam’s support, I won’t be brave enough. So, no.

“Good. Because they’re Sophie and Ethan’s grandparents.”

I laugh weakly. “Yeah. Lucky old Sophie and Ethan. You don’t think they picked up that anything was wrong, do you? Between us?”

“No. Definitely not.”

We’ve left them with a babysitter—the teenage daughter of a neighbor. I had to fight the urge to say, “If by any chance someone calls or comes around saying they’re a member of my family, don’t let them in. Don’t let them speak to the children.”

“My mother will probably tell them, first chance she gets,” I say to Adam. “‘Hi, kids. How’s school? By the way, your mother’s a cyber-slag. She’s lucky your dad didn’t throw her out on the street when he found out, to forage for scraps.’”