On Father’s Day my millionaire son walked into my freezing apartment, saw the tinned soup on the table, and asked how I was managing on the eight thousand a month his wife sends me. I told him nobody sends me anything.

I stopped using it when she died.

I did not close it.

There was no particular reason to close it. And closing it would have meant going into a branch and sitting at a desk opposite somebody of about thirty with a death certificate in my hand.

In the April of 2015 that was not a thing I was going to do. I told myself I would do it in the autumn. I have been telling myself that for ten autumns.

I never told anybody it existed. By about 2018 I had genuinely stopped thinking of it as a thing that existed at all.

Thea found it in the February of 2022.

In a folder of old paperwork. Which I handed over myself, across a kitchen table, when they were setting the arrangement up.