I stand in doorways, trying to get a hold of the rules. They seem to be: comment on child’s growth and/or new haircut; make a joke at her father’s expense; make polite enquiry into general work and/or leisure activities. Usually it’s a Saturday morning, and we are picking the child up or she is getting dropped off.

In the beginning, I didn’t think much about it. It was a novelty. It was – on occasion – logistically annoying. I am good at adapting, but as my relationship with her father continued, the real scale of the situation became apparent.

Oh, you have a daughter. Forever. It’s not like a job you might leave or a house you might sell.