I sat in that car park and I had two completely separate feelings at the same time and they have not entirely separated since.

The first was that my grandmother had been afraid of something.

And the second — and I have had two years and a counsellor on this — was pride.

She had written my name.

Not Tyler’s.

Not Richard’s.

In a book she kept in a drawer, in pencil, at some point when she was sitting alone at a kitchen table thinking about what would happen after she was gone, she had decided that the person in that family who would do the right thing with a piece of paper was me.

I was thirty-four years old and nobody had ever picked me for anything.