I buried my eight-year-old daughter. Eight years later a new student walked into my classroom with her face, and when I finally called that girl’s parents in for a meeting, the door opened and my own husband was standing in it.

I have asked myself who folded it.

It was not Rhoswen; she has told me she has never seen that photograph and I believe her, because she asked me to describe it.

He folded it. My husband folded a photograph of his own wife and put it in another woman’s drawer, sixteen years ago, and that is the single most Gethin Devlin act in this entire account.

He did not throw it away. He did not keep a clean one. He folded it so that both things could be true in the same drawer.

She had worked out who her father’s other family was, and then she had gone looking, and it took a sixteen-year-old with a phone about forty minutes.

So for three weeks that child came into my English class four times a week knowing exactly whose classroom she was sitting in.

She knew my daughter’s name. She knew what she had died of, which is to say she knew that nobody knew.

She had seen a photograph of Iona at eight and she had looked at her own face.

Sixteen years old. Three weeks. On her own, in a room with me, four times a week.

And she still put books on my desk.