We watch the period drama in silence. Macy’s sitting in my head, on the floor of a damp prison cell, about to be stabbed repeatedly with ersatz knives. She’s blaming me for pulling her life apart like wet toilet paper. She’s missing her children and her belly is making dial-up sounds.
‘Dad?’ I say.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you believe me that it wasn’t her fault?’
‘I do.’
‘Is there something we can do? She can’t go to prison because of me. She didn’t do anything. We both did something. Not something wrong.’
He turns the TV off. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he says. ‘We can try and think of a plan.’