“My knuckles started swelling in August, and I dropped it down the bathroom drain twice,” Greg said.

“I was ashamed that I couldn’t keep my own father’s ring on my finger without it falling off.”

“You should have told me,” I said.

“I couldn’t bear to let you watch me fall apart piece by piece,” Greg said.

By seven o’clock, the autumn air had turned sharp and chilly against the windowpanes.

Upstairs, Sophie was in the spare study, unpacking Greg’s remaining dress shirts and laying his soft flannel trousers in the oak dresser drawers.

I filled the kettle at the kitchen sink and brewed two large mugs of chamomile tea.