I see it every time I close my eyes.

My son’s hand above the bath water, I only left him for a minute to grab his favourite toy. It replays over and over in my head, I’m always too late to save him.

My wife tells me not to blame myself, that it was an accident, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. I look at our daughter and it’s like she’s only a half, the other half is gone because of me.

It’s been months. Alcohol does nothing, pills do nothing – I can’t get rid of that image of my son’s tiny hand above the water, reaching out for his dad. There’s only one thing I can do to make things right.

It takes a lot to convince my wife that I’m ok doing this, I reassure her – hold her, kiss her. The things I haven’t been able to do since the accident. She tearfully nods and tells me that she’s proud of me.

I pick up my daughter and carry her upstairs, smothering her with kisses.

It’s bathtime.