She walks down the road, past the scrubby patch of grass with its one tree, past the supermarket, down the underpass, and out at the crumbled edges of the city walls. If she keeps going like this, she might outpace her tiredness. Sun tries to warm the air, but it is chilly. The season is changing; the air here has a bracing twist that she doesn’t remember feeling for years. The sea—it must be something to do with proximity to the sea. She is wearing only a thin jacket. She thinks about returning to the house, but to do so would be to risk defeat—if she does so she might pluck Tom from his stroller and give up. And he is happy enough, kicking his legs, looking from left to right, practicing his wave on the dogs and the passers-by.

He is good on the train too, standing on her thigh and bouncing, trying his legs out for size as the flat estuary lands of England pass by. Her phone buzzes. Hannah.

You still OK for this morning?

Yes!

She adds a smiley face, something she would have avoided in the past, but today, for the sake of speed and this new primary-colored brightness she feels, it seems appropriate.

But by the time the train is slowing for London, Tom is tired and fractious and has missed the window for his nap. He protests when she tries to get him into the stroller on the platform, bucking and twisting away from the straps. She bends down and rummages through her bag for the Tupperware, but the bag, large and voluminous and many-pocketed, is reluctant to give it up. She locates it eventually, takes out a rice cake, and brandishes it towards Tom. “Here! Here, darling.”

He is crying properly now, real tears on his cheeks. He doesn’t want a rice cake. He probably wants a feeding. She kneels before the stroller. “Just—hold on. Please. You can sleep soon.”

She pushes the stroller a little way down the platform, but Tom is beside himself and so she stops and takes out the thinner of the two slings, the one she has used since he was tiny, the one Sam would put him in and sing to him in. Sam. She would put up with any number of his comments and sideswipes to have him here beside her. But he’s not here. There is no cavalry, no deus ex machina. She is the grown-up now.

“Hang on,” she says, her voice getting tighter, as people cast quick, worried looks towards her. “Hang on, darling.” She slots the sling in place, ties its origami folds tightly and manages to get Tom into it. It is like wrestling an octopus. He twists against her chest, but finally the crying eases and soothes, and they both breathe together.

“OK?” she says, stroking his back through the sling. “OK. OK?”