My daughter rang me from a hospital bed and said four words. I drove there in my dress uniform — and found her husband’s family already in the corridor with a lawyer and an agreement dated nine days earlier.

I did not teach my daughter that she did not matter to me. She knows she matters to me; that was never the problem and she has said so.

I taught her that ringing me was expensive.

That it cost something — a meeting, a flight, a rotation, my face going still while I recalculated a week. And she has been doing that arithmetic since she was about nine years old, and she has never once got it wrong in my favour.

There is a specific afternoon I keep.

She was eleven. She had broken her wrist at school and my sister had her, and when I finally got a line at about ten at night she said — eleven years old, in a plaster cast — don’t come back early, Mum, it’s only my left one.

I told that story for years. At dinners. To colleagues. As a funny thing about how tough she was.

I told it eleven or twelve times, to rooms of people, as a point of pride.

That is the single most damning sentence in this account and I was the one going round repeating it.

She learned it perfectly, because she has always learned everything I taught her perfectly.