My ex-husband invited the former wife he believed was still childless and miserable to his family’s Christmas at their military estate. He never imagined I would arrive on a government tactical helicopter — with four eight-year-olds who had his face.

And I had built a life that did not require one single thing from that man.

Not a dollar. Not a telephone call. Nothing, in eight years, and I have the records because I kept them.

Officer Pell put her head round my door about four minutes later. She has worked with me six years and she can read my face from the corridor.

“Commander. Please tell me you are not thinking about going.”

I put the phone face down on the desk.

“Oh, I’m going.”

She looked at me.

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

And I turned round to the window, where four departmental aircraft were sitting out on the tarmac in the afternoon sun.

“But not the way he’s expecting.”

I made that decision in about four seconds.

On a Tuesday afternoon, at a desk, with four open files on a serious piece of work in front of me, looking out of a window at an aircraft.