Seeing the two photographs side-by-side is like a sharp slap to the face. The contrast is stark. In the first, a woman wears a red dress, her sunglasses perched on top of her head and a smile teases the corners of her lips. In the second, is a ghost. Pallid skin, unwashed hair. Her bloodshot eyes gaze beyond the camera to some distant thought. If she isn’t a ghost, then she’s certainly haunted.

Both are me.

I’m transported back to that day the second photograph was taken. Standing in the middle of our son’s soft play party. Around me, a throng of 4-year-olds dance with hula hoops to loud Disney songs. The room is harshly strip-lit and the carpet is littered with streamers from spent party poppers.

If you look closely, you can see I’ve been crying. My blusher is streaked and my eyelashes are still damp from just a few moments before when I’d locked myself in a bathroom stall and silently wept.

As the button is pressed to capture our image, the echo of my ex-husband’s words resonate in the back of my skull. “You need to do better, Liz. You’re not paying attention. You’re a selfish bitch. You can never get it right.”

I’d been talking to a mum-friend when I should have been talking to him. I’d been looking in the wrong direction. I hadn’t been sitting in the right place. I hadn’t responded in the right tone. It was a story as familiar as the ring that had been on my finger for 15 years.

In the photo, he stands with one arm wrapped around me, his fingers holding my arm a little too tightly. His nails pressing into my skin. A broad grin splattered across his face. All the mums and dads are oblivious. Enjoying their cake.

My smile doesn’t reach my eyes.

Perhaps I imagined it.

I reach for the empty space on my ring finger as I sit on my therapist’s couch. The two photographs looking back at me from her coffee table. Two versions of me.

“Do you see it now?” she asks me.

“Yes, I see it.” I say.