Last Christmas I left my family, my husband and my four children, to be with my lover. It was something I had considered, dreamt about and, finally, acted on. I had envisaged something cinematic, dramatic, high stakes. In the end, it was very small-screen. Almost funny in its middle-class sensibility. Everyone knew what was going on. My now ex-husband cooked everyone a hearty meal. Poached eggs and smashed avocado. The last brunch. Then he lined up the children, our children, so I could say goodbye to them. He stood there while I did this act, tears pouring down my cheeks, unable to speak. He watched silently. Then he took the children off shopping. The door slammed. I watched them walk off in a little group.