Stanley sat up, apparently only winded, but tearful and shocked. ‘We was looking for some treasure,’ he said, wiping his nose on his arm. ‘And Harry said “Mummy’s bedroom”—’

‘No, I did not!’ yelled his brother in outrage.

‘And we looked in the drawer and found a picture, but Harry said—’

‘No, I did NOT!’ yelled Harry, before he even knew the accusation.

‘Open another one and – yes, you did! He did, Mummy! And it fell out and I bumped and – GET OFF ME! OW! He hurt me AGAIN!’

And now they were grappling and rolling around the floor like bear-cubs, the crumpled picture Stanley had been holding discarded, so that he could land a punch on his brother’s head. Olivia barely registered their shouts of protest and war, because on seeing the dropped picture, she’d let out a cry of dismay herself.

‘Oh, boys,’ she said wretchedly, her hand swooping for the photo, which was now completely ruined. She must have sounded particularly anguished because they actually stopped brawling for a moment to stare at her. ‘Boys, this is . . .’ She couldn’t speak for a moment because she was staring down at the picture of her first love, the teenage boy who had captured her heart so completely back in Cornwall, and she found herself overcome with desolation at how far away those carefree days now seemed. How had she turned into this frazzled, miserable housewife since then? ‘This was Mummy’s special photo,’ she said, trying and failing to swallow back the sob that was building in her throat. If only you could reverse through time, she would go now and stay there, she thought. Do everything differently.

The boys, unperturbed, merely resumed their scrap, rolling and bowling around on the floor, and she stepped over them and retreated to the living room, where she sank into the sofa and cried. Not just a tear or two, not just a whimper, but a proper shoulder-shaking weep where her feelings completely overtook her. Where she felt as if she might never stop crying.

It was no good, she thought desperately. She couldn’t do this. She simply couldn’t do this any more. Other women had their own mums popping round, helping out and dispensing loving advice. They had sisterly wisdom passed on to them, kind mothers-in-law even, who would descend and provide practical assistance (albeit with judgemental looks at the laundry pile and dusty skirting boards, if the women she’d overheard complaining at toddler group were to be believed). Olivia had no such support network, though – no mum, no sisters and few friends she felt able to confide in. On days like these, she always felt so alone. Even her own mother-in-law descending from Scotland for her annual visit, raising a disapproving eyebrow at the state of her fridge drawer – Are the boys getting enough nutrition, do you think, dear? – would have been welcomed as company right now.