No, there was never any hint of favouritism. It was just that some children needed their parents more than others, and although one might assume I’d be the obvious candidate for a lifebelt, with my dysfunctional marriage, it was Helena, with her very happy family, who needed it. It was always Helena who made the calls. When she got home from work, in her beautiful white designer kitchen. Jacket flung on the sofa behind her as she got supper, phone clamped between ear and shoulder, simultaneously supervising the twins doing homework at one end of the long island. The one with the least time. The one who couldn’t possibly be here. What would happen to them, I wondered, with a sudden jolt of panic, when I wasn’t here either? When I wasn’t permitted to be here? Detained, at Her Majesty’s Pleasure? Helena couldn’t possibly replace me. She had a full-on, full-time job and school-aged children. They’d have to have a carer. Because although I could definitely leave them for a couple of days, the more I was here, the more I realized what an absolute necessity I was. Yes, they’d come on leaps and bounds and the crumbling had been far less dramatic these last few weeks, but I knew, in my heart, it had only been temporarily arrested. In a year or so’s time, without someone’s watchful eye, something else would start to give.

I watched as they squabbled now in the corner, about some whizzy sound system they wanted to show me, which, despite the house having only bare bones, had been installed along with the electrics.

‘You press this,’ Mum was hissing.

‘No, you don’t, you press this.’

‘Oh, you stupid man.’

This was how quickly things could degenerate into their usual bickering. I nipped across to officiate. Both their faces were pink as I took the remote they were fighting over.

‘Here.’ I showed them. ‘All you do is literally touch this one, with the arrow, to start it. And this one to stop it. That’s all you do.’

‘Put it on,’ Mum said eagerly.

‘You do it. Like I showed you.’

She took the remote back. Looked flustered for a moment. But after some initial hesitation, she did. The Brahms violin concerto, full of loss and longing, miraculously floated through mysterious speakers. It was too clever by half and I saw Mum’s eyes widen in wonder. My father’s closed in rapture. He loved Brahms. Mum began to dance, in a floaty, ethereal way, arms outstretched like a ballerina, around the room. My father, eyes still shut, gently swayed, his hands conducting.

‘Wonderful,’ he breathed eventually. ‘And so fiddly, all my gramophone records. I’d almost given up.’

‘Dad, stop it. Ant changed you over to CDs years ago!’

‘It broke,’ he said simply. ‘The machine.’

‘So get it repaired.’