Back in the days when we were together and living the dream, we got on really well with our neighbours. Martin would donate his allotment veg to our Sunday roast, cut our trees and tidy our wayward front garden. His wife, Jenny, who was recovering from cancer and all sorts of horribleness, was always there with a smile and ready to hand over any of the many parcels Amazon delivered to her while we were out. We gave them wine each year and a card to say how grateful we were.

Turns out, Jenny isn’t speaking to me any more. Seems (according to my husband) that she launched a tirade about what a terrible mother/wife I am and HOW could I move out  – what about the children?

‘Just don’t bump into Jenny,’ he said tonight.

And I cried and cried. Another affirmation that I am, in fact, a horrible person. Everybody thinks the same thing, so, I am realising, it must be them who are right and me who is wrong. I wondered about driving off the road tonight, did a little swerve; thought of my children and steadied myself.

My neighbours here don’t know anything about me. And I’m keeping it that way.

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