I got on a plane to my mother’s hospital and my husband was eleven rows in front of me with my best friend. There was a note of hers in my handbag that she’d written on my fridge that morning.

So he stopped.

Where it is now.

Corin is at his brother’s. There is a solicitor and it is going to be dull and expensive and he is not fighting any of it, which I have been told I should be grateful for and about which I feel nothing at all.

The children know. The two older ones have worked out most of it on their own and Bee knows a version that is true and smaller.

Saskia has written to me twice. I have not opened them and they are in a drawer.

Immy still comes on a Thursday.

That took three phone calls, one with Dev and two with somebody who does this properly, and it is the only decision in all of this that I am sure about. She is eleven and she has done nothing, and that child is not losing a house she has been coming to since she was seven because of four adults.