This vast numbness. Staring out the window of my office. Seeing nothing. Thinking nothing. Trying to resist pouring wine so early in the day, which has become my habit over the months of hard writing. Drinking and crying—especially towards the end. By then, the build-up was intolerable.

Sometimes my husband would find a glass tainted deep red as he stacked the dishwasher in the late afternoon. He’d frown: ‘Have you been drinking?’