We’ve had enough of everything here today. Enough milky tea, enough pasta. I have lost my desire to explore. I cannot be bothered to go over to St Kevin’s Tower as I was hoping to because Jenny has taken so long walking with Maeve. The truth is that we may as well have spent the day in Maxwell’s Park over at the football pitch. I make a show of lashing everything into the boot of the car. Jenny sits back in the passenger seat in expectation of a relaxing journey. I drive home too quickly which isn’t like me because I’m normally a fussy driver. The kids are tired and they are at each other in that prickly way that only siblings can be. It’s a special familial test. Brian and I would have been at the same malarkey when we were kids. But I’m in no mood for it.

When we get home it’s almost bedtime. Upstairs in Maeve’s room I can hear Jenny reading to the kids. I move in and out of their bedrooms putting away clean clothes from the hot press and toys and magazines that have been discarded on the floor. I can hear their contentment as they hold their talk in, it’s the one time when they are quiet and contented. I am glad that they like stories about wizardry because it keeps them safe in the arms of innocence for that bit longer. People allow their children to move away from childhood too soon in my estimation.

I sit at Jenny’s desk and I rub my fingers along it, feeling the marks in the metal. They are like minute scars that are left after someone has repeatedly cut themselves. Her desk is part of her. There are photos stuck to the wall. Happy shots of the children. Others – of objects that no doubt she has found interesting for one reason or another, over time. There is one of herself and the children that I remember taking in Connemara. Huddled together after a long day of swimming in Dog’s Bay avoiding seaweed and magenta jellyfish, Maeve’s purple lips and Mikey and Joey posing for the camera but you can see that they are shivering behind their smiles. Not a single image of me. I scour the walls, nothing.