If Margaret had called Michael Turner on Sunday evening, he would have listened to her — he would have listened to her for an hour, because he loved her — and at the end of it he would have said, gently, that grief looks for a shape, and that she should not do this to herself.

She knew that.

That is why she didn’t call.

She has said, since, that the two days between that Sunday and that Tuesday were the worst of her life, and that they were worse than the day itself, because on the day she at least knew.

On Sunday and Monday she was a sixty-one-year-old woman lying awake in the dark, trying to work out whether she was a professional recognizing a pattern or a mother losing her mind.

There is one more thing from those two days.