Some nights, I dreaded our alone time together, because there was so much of it. And I hated myself for feeling that way. But as with most things, it gets better. He’s older now, and he’s eager to tell me about passing his swim test at camp, and sharing fidget spinners with his friend Leo. But once he’s done recapping select parts of his day, it’s over and out, and I’m not going to force a thriving, happy kid to keep his mum company because she’s fed up with being alone. It’s sick and unfair on every level. So I soldier on. I cook a single duck breast for myself, maybe with a side of tomatoes. I look at photos of my husband, and think back to what could and should and might have been, and for five glorious years, was.