Mr Hughes set up the trust for Noah's shares. Twenty per cent of Whitfield Motors, held until he turned eighteen, with me as trustee.

Tom's solicitor sent a letter too. Tom wanted to pay seven years of child support. Every month he'd missed, backdated, without anyone asking him to.

I put every penny into a fund for Noah's education.

One evening, Noah was doing his homework at the kitchen table when he looked up at me. “Mum. Grandad Frank's dead, isn't he?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“So will I still get birthday cards?”

My throat went tight. “Probably not from him. But maybe from someone else.”

He chewed his pencil. He was so like Tom when he did that.

“The man at the funeral,” he said. “The one who looked at me funny. With the chin like mine. Is that my dad?”

I put down the tea towel and sat beside him.

“Yes,” I said. “That's your dad. He made a big mistake a long time ago. He's very sorry. And he'd really like to meet you, if you want to.”

Noah thought about it very seriously.

“Does he like football?”