When you walked into the bar, wearing your cuddly blue duffle coat, I found you irresistibly cute.
I remember you kissing me gently on the cheek after our second meeting and bundling me into a taxi.
I remember going to watch some weird film at a cinema near where you lived, so I had a pretext to stop by.
I remember listening to Portishead, lying on the bed in your tiny chambre de bonne, with its sloping floor and pre-war electrics, seeing only your grey blue eyes.
I remember the joy written all over your face when I told you we were having a baby.
I remember holding on to you for dear life whilst I retreated far inside myself to deal with the pain of labour.
I remember you giving Tadpole her first bath by my side, while I looked on, helpless, unable to move.
I remember standing by her bed, by your side, many times, marvelling at our beautiful daughter as she slept, wondering how we came to create such a perfect creature.
I feel dazed yet strangely calm inside. Tearful at times, but mostly just numb.
I am profoundly sad and sorry that it has come to this.
But I know, without the merest shadow of a doubt, that it is what is right.