Helen's Polo was outside, no one in the kitchen. Slowly, I went up the stairs and gently pushed her door. She was at the window, watering her plant.

Therapy taught me to fight back, she said.

It taught me to forgive, I replied, too quickly.

Was this even true? Only in the most metaphysical sense. Had I not forgiven God for leaving me motherless at nine, for leaving me and my Dad to bring each other up? My forgiveness had been for the facticity of life itself. But I had never been in Helen's position. I had never been in a room with a watering can, trying to forgive a real person. But how much water did this plant need? I considered taking her elbow, and imagined myself gently lifting the can.

Ah, she was crying. What had I done? Had she not mentioned a pervy uncle at a workshop? Had I regressed her? She put the can down and came towards me. This was good, I could work with this, turn my unlovely grope into a deeper process of healing other, far worse traumas. Perhaps she had even precipitated the whole incident? Was I also the victim here? Possibly the main victim? Pulled in by my collar, doomed to repeat her unresolved issues?

She reached out to me, as if she wanted to feel the quality of my shirt, a gesture familiar to our foreplay. I wiped a tear from her cheek, the space condemning us to gentleness. I took a step back as if to prove I could restrain myself. Was that wrong? Her eyes and smile returned to her face. She stepped back, too, retreating into ancient hurt and, simultaneously, the defensive team protecting it. Smiling she said, shall we talk later? I was done for. I left quickly, as if Gareth were there, ushering me out the door.