My husband left his medication at home, so I stopped by his office to bring it to him. But when I asked the receptionist to call him downstairs, she said, "Ma'am, your husband has been on leave for the past week."

He knew.

And there is one more thing, and it is the one I have had the hardest time with.

He tried.

Twice. And I did not know about either of them until the fourth week, sitting at our own kitchen table, when he finally went through the whole thing with me from the fourth of June onwards.

It took about two hours. He did not make either of them sound like my fault, which is what he is like, and which did not help one bit.

The first was four days after the diagnosis.

A Sunday evening. He came and sat on the end of our bed while I was doing something on a tablet.

And he said: Imogen, I need to tell you something — and I need you to not do the thing where you organise it.

And I said: what have I organised?

Four words. Light. The way you say it when somebody has said something slightly unfair about you and you are inviting them to take it back.