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.

For ten years. About four hundred and eighty envelopes. Four boxes under a bed.

And then arranged, deliberately, with messages I sent myself, for nobody else to be able to see what was in it either.

If there is something you are not opening —

The post from one particular bank. The folder on the shelf. The drawer in the spare room.

The box under a bed that you have moved house with twice.

The one in your own hallway that you walk past about four times a day.

You already know which one it is.

You knew before the end of that sentence. It took you about four seconds and you have known for years.

Go and open it this week. On an ordinary evening. Standing up, in a hallway, with the light on.