I went into labour at my husband’s funeral and my mother-in-law told me to call a taxi. Twelve days later the two of them were at my door asking for their grandchild.

And Eleanor Vessing, who had taken a ring out of my closed hand in front of sixty people, could not make a sentence.

Arthur said, “That’s not—” and stopped.

They went. The folder went back into the car unopened.

I have not seen either of them since and there has been nothing filed.

Marguerite is eleven months old.

Nuala Breen and I met in the June, in a soft play in Ardenmoor, because it was the only place either of us could think of.

Posy is not going to be told anything by me. That is Nuala’s, entirely, and I have said so in writing.

But Posy has a cousin now, and the two of them have met four times, and my daughter is going to grow up knowing that there is a nine-year-old with her father’s family’s chin who somebody once paid to go away.

It’s a family ring — you’ve been in this family two years.