“I was eleven.”

“Yes,” said my grandmother. “I know exactly how old you were. I’ve had four years and a criminal record and a one-room flat over a laundromat to think about how old you were.”

I left after that. I didn’t say goodbye, exactly, I just said “okay” and went out to the bus stop.

I told my mother that night. All of it, straight away, because I’ve decided I’m not doing the three-year thing again.

She went very still and then she said, “Are you all right?” and then, after a second, “Do you want me to have an opinion?”

I said not yet.