I went to surprise my husband at the hospital with his lunch. His colleague looked at me with tears in his eyes and said: “He hasn’t told you anything, has he?”

at Brackley Cross, on the rate he was on, is about two thousand two hundred a month after tax. 

He made up the difference out of an account I have never had a card for, which turned out to be his father’s money from 2017, and which he had been keeping for a deposit for her one day.

It is gone. All of it. That is the actual cost of eleven months of not telling me, and it is not the mortgage, it is a nineteen-year-old in 2036 who will not be getting a flat.

The rough nights. The nights he did not come home at all. A forty-four-year-old consultant surgeon in a hi-vis vest, loading pallets, on the shift nobody wants because it pays eighty pence more an hour.

Here is what happened in the March.

A twelve-year-old patient, and I am not going to write about that child