Fifteen years ago, my boyfriend came home to the flat we were sharing, took both my hands in his and told me he had something to tell me. I remember his face - pale and drawn - his fingers trembling. We sat on the sofa we had argued over buying in Habitat several months previously and he looked me in the eye and said: ‘The thing is. I’m just not entirely sure I love you enough to spend the rest of my life with you.’ Then he rushed to the bathroom and threw up. Looking back, was there ever a more definitive sign of a man wanting out? Certainly, I was left in no doubt that our six-year relationship was over. The next morning, as a weak sun rose over our North London apartment, I shoved what I could into a small bag and, weeping, asked him for a final time if he was sure? He just nodded, dry-eyed, no doubt relieved the job was done. And that, probably, should have been that. Yet, today, I am married to that very same man - the one who vomited over the thought of a future with me. Indeed, we have four children, two dogs, two cars, crockery, bedding, an entire life and all its accoutrements binding us inextricably together. So I’ve got what I’d always wanted. For all the years we dated and I held on to him, tight, like a kite in high wind, I dreamed of a life just like the one I’m having now. But sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for. Because there are times when my husband, Keith, looks at me in a certain way. I’m sure he doesn’t mean his face to reveal so much, but it’s the kind of look you might cast a stranger or somebody for whom you have no feelings at all - an empty glance devoid of warmth. Every time I’m on the receiving end of it, my heart deflates. Yes, he may be here - an excellent father to our children and a dutifully loving husband - but I will never know for sure if he’s here because of me. Or, whether I just never gave him any other option. The reason for this is simple. All those years ago when I should have left the relationship and moved on, I couldn’t. I went back for one last night; a night when Keith invited me over to tie up loose ends and pack up the remainder of my belongings. We went out for dinner, ended up reminiscing and, almost inevitably, ended up in bed. And, in that maelstrom of high emotion, I accidentally got pregnant. Keith and I had met in 1992 when we worked for the same publishing company. I was 21 and he was 25. I’d just come out of a toxic relationship with a controlling boyfriend and Keith was there at the desk next to mine. He was friendly, kind and normal. We started going out for drinks after work and things progressed from there. But only up to a point. Keith seemed to need my company in many ways - we spent every evening and all our weekends together - but in others he insisted on holding me at arm’s length. He was very protective about his space. He owned a one-bed flat while I was still renting a room in a house-share. While he let me leave my toothbrush at his, for six years he refused to discuss the idea of me moving in. Still, I adored him. Perhaps it was the fact that he made me do all the chasing that made me determined to tie him down. So when, finally, in 1997, he asked me to move in with him, I was overjoyed. At last I felt we were a proper couple. I even dared hope for a future together. Then, three months after moving in, Keith dropped his bombshell. I was distraught. When the night came weeks later to pick up my things, I was utterly desperate. Sobbing, I begged and pleaded with Keith to change his mind. Eventually - probably out of sympathy on his part - we went to bed together. If you want to be romantic about these things, you could argue that we were destined to be together; that, despite Keith’s best efforts to extricate himself, fate had other ideas and threw us together anyway. That’s what I think when I’m feeling positive. A more realistic summing up probably comes from Keith’s best friend who, when told what had happened, chuckled into his pint and said: ‘That’s truly bad luck, mate.’ Either way, what do you do in this situation? I still loved Keith and felt strangely elated to be pregnant. But, as he so rightly pointed out when I broke the news to him three months later, what chance had I of ever getting over him while carrying his child? By now, Keith had started dating someone else. How he explained his pregnant ex to her, God only knows. He didn’t want me - he’d made that clear - but what he wanted much, much, less, was a child brought into the world under these dysfunctional circumstances. The next few months saw countless angst-ridden phone calls. We even tried meeting up to talk, but feelings (and hormones) were running so high this usually involved one or other of us storming off. Neither of us seemed able to make sense of the mess we were in. But I knew one thing above everything else. I wanted this baby. Even if it meant doing it on my own. I now wish I’d thought about the implications of my actions in a more calculated way - about what it would mean if Keith did come back. Which he did, just days before our daughter Flo was born in October 1998. By now, Keith had bought a flat not too far from where he lived. I moved into it and paid the mortgage. The idea was that, being so close, he could have regular contact with the baby when it was born. But as my pregnancy neared its end, he started popping over more regularly - at first for ten minutes at a time, but as my due date neared he would stay for dinner or to watch TV. Meanwhile, as Keith kept reminding me that ‘coming back for the baby’s sake would be a catastrophic mistake’, I hoped and prayed he would come back for good. I thought having him back would guarantee my happiness.