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.”

He did not. He came out and he stopped on the steps and something went across that man’s face that was not relief at all.

It looked like a man being handed a bill. I have described it to four people since and that is the only way I can get it across.

And then he took my hand and said, very quietly: “Come home with me, Wren.”

We had a week.

Eight days, in that flat, with Theo in and out and not knowing where to put himself.

Takeout cartons. The television on with the sound down.

And the two of us learning how to be in an actual room together, with no glass and no clock and nobody at the end of a row watching us.

It was the best week of my life and I knew at the time that it was and I have not changed my mind.