So, that was it. The wedding was a matter of weeks away and my family was leaving me for a new life and a unicorn bedroom in Scotland. Meanwhile, I’d let the man I love leave and all I was left with was an endless guest list and a huge bill for Emma’s wedding. I’m not complaining, I insisted on making a large contribution from my house money.

I was in the middle of my finals, and as tutorials had now ended and we were well into revision mode, I’d managed to avoid Dave, thankfully. After my last text he hadn’t responded, but his radio silence spoke volumes – he clearly thought I was deluded and believed we were having an affair. I knew I should deal with this, but I also knew that I’d end up saying too much, behaving weirdly and making things worse. So, I decided it was best to leave well alone – I wasn’t going to let anything cloud my last few weeks of living with Emma and Rosie. Emma and I both knew things were about to change, so we made the most of our time together. I spent the days revising and finishing my dissertation, then taking my exams, while Rosie enjoyed her last few weeks at the uni crèche. The rest of the time was spent wandering in awe through white tulle, floral bouquets and cake tastings. Despite my initial apprehension I couldn’t escape the feelings of love and joy I had in sharing in this moment with my daughter – it’s what every mother dreams of. The wedding was to be in Scotland at a big old castle, which I was invited to inspect, along with the groom, who looked at Emma with such love, and treated her and Rosie – and me – with such kindness, I began to accept what was happening.

I did contemplate how the people I loved always moved far away from me but tried not to take this personally. This pre-wedding time was happy. We shopped for Rosie and Emma’s dresses – white fishtail lace for Emma and a ballerina pink flower girl dress for Rosie, who was furious because she’d planned to go as a unicorn. It was an unusually warm summer, and some early evenings, Emma and I would sit in the garden with a chilled white while Rosie played with her toys on the grass. Other times, we’d order pizzas and watch Rosie-chosen DVDs (which turned out to be Frozen, Frozen and Frozen). We also went to the zoo, theatre, cinema and out for tea far more than we should – I just wanted to enjoy these last few weeks because I knew once family life and school kicked in up in Edinburgh, I wouldn’t see much of Rosie. She’d promised to Skype, but as she’d pointed out, ‘Don’t be surprised if I don’t because I can get very busy.’ I was slowly coming to terms with everything, and though I’d had a few tearful moments in private, I wanted to throw myself entirely into making Emma and Rosie’s farewell a memory we could all hold onto.

A week before the wedding, Mandy offered to give us all beauty treatments, including Rosie, which worried Emma slightly. I promised that the treatments Mandy gave her drag queen clientele would not be used on a four-year-old, but I crossed my fingers behind my back as I said it, and off we went.

‘She hasn’t had a bloody hen night!’ Mandy screeched accusingly in my face as she painted Rosie’s nails pearly pink.

I held my breath and cringed at what might come next, but I reckoned Mandy was already ordering the fake penises, if she didn’t have a stockpile in her garage.

I couldn’t whisk Rosie away with her nails half-done – divas always complete their grooming – so I just had to hope Mandy didn’t swear too much or say anything too sexual – which was like asking her not to speak, really.

‘I don’t think Emma wanted a hen night,’ I said, aware that Rosie was looking at Mandy like she was a goddess and was likely to repeat everything she said.

‘Your Emma should have a party at least. I know, a fancy dress? I know… I know,’ she could barely speak with excitement and I was too slow to get in there before she finished, ‘tarts and bloody vicars?’

‘Tarts and bruddy knickers?’ giggled Rosie innocently, shaking her head like Mandy was a crazy bitch, which could easily have been the next words out of her little rosebud mouth, had I not intervened.

‘I don’t think… tar— that… would be appropriate,’ I said to Mandy, nodding in Rosie’s direction, hoping if it stopped now, Rosie might forget she’d ever heard it.

‘Nah, you’re right – your Emma’s a bit classy for tarts and vicars,’ Mandy said, repeating the bloody sentence, stopping the nail painting and gazing into the ceiling for hen night inspiration as Rosie looked on in awe. ‘I know, what about something a bit more posh… Golf Pros and Tennis Hoes?’

‘Not sure…’ I said, though I was very sure – adamant, in fact – but it was clear Rosie was intrigued by the idea, even though she didn’t understand what the hell was going on.

I was now at the stage of defeat, almost abandoning any kind of censorship. It was like holding back a tsunami as Mandy went on to list the various possibilities of my daughter’s hen night themes and accompanying props. ‘Naughty nurses… Erm… Playboy bunnies?’

‘Hardly.’

‘You crazy bitch!’ she laughed, like I was the mad one. ‘I know, I know, what about S&M? Whips and chains and…’

‘I always think the simplest ideas are better,’ I cut in, trying to stop this tsunami of filth being washed over my granddaughter’s innocent ears.

‘Okay, it’s looking like really big blow-up penises,’ she said before I could do anything to stop her.

Which is why, when Richard arrived the following day in a big van to move their stuff to Scotland, Rosie greeted him by telling him, ‘Nana’s going to the wedding as a really big penis!’

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The day of the wedding dawned and I woke to mixed emotions. My head knew this was right for Emma and Rosie, but my heart ached to think I wouldn’t see them every day, or even every week. It would be tough on all of us, but Emma had Richard, and Rosie had them both, so hopefully they’d be okay. It was just me who would struggle, and I felt truly alone – especially without Dan to hold my hand and tell me it would all be fine.

I tried to push thoughts of him aside and think ‘happy thoughts’ because if I didn’t get a grip, I might well end up sobbing throughout this wedding. I stepped into my new powder blue dress and shoes, applied my make-up carefully and added a blue feathery fascinator, which looked good on my blonde hair. I wanted Emma to be proud of her mum; I knew the wedding pictures would be pored over long after they’d left for Scotland and I wanted to look good.

Leaving my hotel room, I closed the door, knowing our lives would be quite different when I returned later that day. I knew the occasion was supposed to be happy, but I was sad to say another goodbye and tried to keep my composure as I entered the reception area where drinks were being served before the wedding. I greeted friends and family, was introduced to some of Richard’s side and, checking the table planner, managed to hide my sheer horror at the prospect of spending the wedding breakfast seated next to Craig. I’d seen my ex-husband as little as possible since I’d left him, and he’d avoided me too – not because we were broken-hearted and couldn’t bear to see the one that got away, but because we couldn’t bear to see each other full stop.

For years we’d lived with a deep, mutual, burning dislike of each other. This sometimes slipped into pure, unadulterated hatred, and in my case sometimes trod the very fine line between letting him live and murdering him as he slept. On the sofa. Mouth open. Snoring. In the middle of Silent Witness. Thankfully, those days were behind me and I only had to get through the next hour or so – how hard could that be?

Unfortunately, I saw him as soon as he entered the castle chapel where the ceremony was taking place, and to my dismay he joined me, pushing me up the pew with his ill-judged plonk down. Although he visited Rosie and Emma occasionally, I’d always made myself scarce, so it was all a bit awkward as he gave me a nod and a monosyllabic grunt. Emma didn’t want Craig to give her away; she said it was ‘perpetuating the patriarchy’ and he’d said that was fine by him because he had a dropped flange to fix first thing and might be a bit late anyway. Sadly, it seemed the flange hadn’t proved too problematic and he’d made it with time to spare, which meant I now had to make non-plumbing small talk with him until the ceremony got underway. I glanced over at him, waiting for some acknowledgement of the occasion, but he was staring ahead, probably dreaming of hard setting sealant and brass flange nipples.

‘Looks beautiful, doesn’t she?’ I whispered, trying to open up the lines of communication, if only for the day. But he just nodded and checked his phone and I felt the years of frustration, resentment and anger come back up between us like a brick wall. Having Craig around made me miss Dan even more, because he was everything my ex-husband wasn’t. I thought about Dan every morning when I woke up, every night before I fell asleep and a million times in between, and here in the church, on this special day, I’d have loved him by my side.

He would have obsessed over the wedding breakfast and insisted on baking the cake, which was white chocolate and raspberry, sweet and delicious. Dan was a fantastic cook and a brilliant baker, and though self-taught, he had the knowledge and passion of a great chef. And later, as we ate canapés made from goats’ cheese, figs and drizzled basil oil, I imagined Dan savouring every mouthful, discussing the flavours and ingredients intensely. He’d have pondered the exact origin of the Scottish beef for the main course, and I’d have teased him, saying it was the cow called Daisy who lived on the third hill from the left. He’d have loved the crisp, bubbly Prosecco, and the rich, fruity Merlot, allowing it to roll around his tongue, while he considered the grape.

This was in complete contrast to darling Craig, who, while shovelling in two canapés at once, was heard to remark, ‘This is rubbish! Don’t know why they don’t just give us a sandwich until dinner comes.’ His only comment to me throughout the elegant wedding breakfast was, ‘This wine tastes like battery acid, I’m going to suffer with my guts later,’ causing my fascinator to droop. Wherever Dan might be, things could be worse – I could still be with Craig, I thought as he belched loudly into his napkin.

As for Emma, she was magnificent, and as Mother of the Bride, I tried to ignore the Father of the Bride and just enjoy the day. I was so proud and happy for her. I wept loudly as she walked down the aisle, causing Craig to tut beside me and shift uncomfortably. But this was merely a prelude to my uncontrolled blubbing at the sight of my little granddaughter in baby pink with a basket of roses. To everyone’s amusement, her sudden sprint up the aisle caused my restrained sobs to erupt, reaching levels of what can only be described as climactic hysteria. Even the registrar waited until I’d composed myself before she started the ceremony. But Rosie reacted to my blubbing with her usual candour and, standing with the bride and groom at the altar, one hand on her hip, she rolled her eyes and shouted, ‘Nana, you crazy bitch!’