Gavin did the work — real therapy, real change — and became, in time, a genuinely good father to Mia, which is the only apology I ever actually wanted from him.

On a bench at Mia’s park, years on, he told me he’d finally understood himself: that asking me to quit had made him feel needed, that it had fed his ego, and that when I adapted to living on less, he had told himself I needed less, when what he was really doing was forcing me to shrink.

“Why did I choose her,” he asked, “over what we had?” “Because she admired a version of you that wasn’t real,” I said, “and I only ever knew the real one — the man who forgot to buy groceries.

You chose the stage, Gavin.