But what was I supposed to do? If anyone dropped by and saw how the kids had been living, they were liable to call child services. The way I saw it, I had two options—I could either call Adrian and demand he come and make the house presentable or I could do it myself. Neither speaking to him nor seeing him appealed and I’d always found cleaning relaxing, but I had better things to do with my days now. In addition to spending quality time with my kids, I had blog posts to write and also planned on starting to solicit sponsors for the ball.

A third option popped into my head—I could do the absolute bare minimum to make the house liveable for me and the children but leave it almost as bad as I found it.

I shuddered at the thought—no way could I live in this pigsty—as a fourth option struck and a smile sprung on my lips. I could hire a cleaner myself and send Adrian the bill. That’d teach him. It was bad enough doing the lion’s share of the housework when you were married to someone, but no way was I going to pick up after him now!

After scouring the internet for a cleaner who could come at such short notice, I did what all women with regular help do. I’d always laughed at my friends who tidied for the cleaner, but there was no way I could expect anyone to attack this mess without at least picking up the rubbish. With Charlie following behind me, I filled three massive bin bags with debris from the kids’ bedrooms, my bedroom and living areas, then started on the kitchen. I had déjà vu from when I’d first started clearing out the shack.

By the time I picked Payton up from school, I swear steam was shooting from my ears. So far, I’d written about fifty sarcastic notes to leave for Adrian when I went back to the Point next week. The one for the kitchen bin was my favourite: If you can’t fit anything else in me, it’s time to take me outside.

I was too late to wait in the Kiss and Drive, so I had to park and go into the grounds, something I’d been avoiding for months because I couldn’t stand the pity or nosiness of the other mums.

‘Ashling,’ a few of them shrieked in unison as I approached the classroom. Hugs were exchanged as they made gushing noises about how lovely it was to see me again.

‘Looks like single life is treating you well,’ pondered Liza, a mother of twin boys—joint class clowns—who always looked like she could do with a good night’s sleep. ‘You look fantastic.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking my cheeks were probably still pink from my Adrian-directed rage.