Two years ago today, my life fell apart. Sue and I had taken the children to Disneyland Paris for the weekend. We both loathed the place, but it was impossible not to revel in the pleasure the kids took in the park, the hotel (where we had a suite), the exotic experience of being abroad in a non-English environment. And then when we were dressing for breakfast, she came out of the shower, deathly pale, and said she had found a large lump in her breast. We knew it was serious from the word go. The drive back to the UK, during which we had to maintain an outwardly calm appearance for the sake of the children and the friends with whom we had embarked on what had seemed such a frivolous adventure, was the longest and most traumatic journey I’ve ever undertaken, but it was as nothing compared to what lay ahead. Eighteen months later, the love of my life was dead.