‘We’re doing the right thing… for Connor?’ I ask again.

Usually Aidan responds with a firm yes but this time he says, ‘I hope so.’ My fingers find his but he pulls his hand from under mine. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’

As he says this we both inadvertently straighten our spines. His eyes momentarily narrow in regret because he’s referenced that he still has a career before they widen into a question.

Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?

My gaze is steadfast.

Yes, I’m certain.

He gives a barely imperceptible nod. After so many years of marriage we’ve honed the ability to have a conversation without words.

But should I have resigned? During the stretch of summer, with both boys at home, there was always something to do. Now Connor will be at school, Kieron will sleep for most of the day until he’s recovered and then he too will rejoin his class. How will I fill my time? How will I define myself?

Already, I can feel myself slipping away.

I’ve woken Connor, checked on Kieron and now I’m dressed in faded black leggings and an old jumper of Aidan’s. My heart beats faster as I open the front door; I’ve steeled myself to find another bird on the step, but there’s nothing there. I glance up and down the street. No white car. My relief is tempered with caution and, once in the car, I keep checking my rear-view mirror until Connor throws himself onto the passenger seat in a cloud of too much deodorant and general mardy-ness. The heater is already throwing out warm air and the breakfast show I like is playing Fleetwood Mac’s ‘The Chain’.

Again, I yawn.

‘I could drive myself?’ Connor says hopefully.

‘Nice try.’ I throw him a smile he doesn’t return. He passed his test shortly after he’d turned seventeen just before Easter, and although we’d allowed him to borrow the car once, he’d dented the wing parking and we hadn’t let him take it since.

Connor turns his attention to his phone, thumbs flying over the keypad. The traffic is back-to-school terrible. Each time it clears, my foot does the lift and drop of impatience against the accelerator, but when the speedo creeps towards 35 mph I force myself to slow down.

We don’t want an accident.

Another one.

I pull into Deene Street. I used to drop Connor right at the school gates but that was before he found me embarrassing.

‘We’re here,’ I say gently.