I married a man in prison for money. Three years later his conviction was overturned — and eight days after he came home he put a black box on the kitchen table and said, “Now it’s my turn.”

I was twenty-four, and then twenty-five, with a thirteen-year-old and then a fourteen-year-old and two jobs and a mother who had just died.

And I did not have one single spare question in me for anything in my life that was going right.

Avram Loewe had never met me in 2019. Not once, not in that hall, not anywhere.

He has gone over this with me four separate times, because I could not take it in and I kept making that man say it again.

He did not know my first name until the February of 2022.

What he knew, from 2019, was a surname on a register. And he knew which of those four children was the one whose mother had died in the August, because the school rang the hall about it.

And in the November of 2021 — four months before a woman in a good coat sat down opposite me on Carrow Street — he was convicted.