I told them no from inside the fence, and then I went back to my own reception and danced. Sabine’s wedding had sheet cakes from a supermarket in Paso Robles, and by every account they were fine. What I did not expect was Sabine herself, who drove to my shop in October, sat at the corner table, and asked why nobody had ever paid me. She had genuinely never known. Twenty-three years old and horrified. She has come every other Saturday since.

The lost accounts came back within a year, and two new ones came with them. My father died the following spring. He never apologised, but three days before, he asked Beckett whether I had a good life, and Beckett told him yes, and I have decided that is enough. My mother and I have coffee monthly and speak of small things.

There is a photograph on my bakery wall of me seated at my own wedding table, mid laugh, a plate in front of me that I did not make. That is the whole of it. Being useful is not the same as being wanted, and I refuse to confuse them again.