She was never one to complain about them waking in the night or teething or any of those things that can break the spirit of the most devoted parent. I admired her for it. Growing older had robbed me of some of my patience and while I, too, doted on those children and loved to see them coming round, there were times when I was happier to see them leave.

They were whirlwinds of activity – and they’d rush into our home, pull it apart bit by bit, eat all my food and then leave later, tummies full and hearts fuller. I’d survey the spilled buckets of building blocks and the scattered crayons, rescue a half-chewed pencil from Izzy that had left a trail of splinters in the hall, and restack the sofa cushions, dismantling their forts and picking up crushed biscuits from the floor.

The moment of peace and quiet when they’d left – the first time I’d sit on my chair and listen to the silence around me – was always blissful. Paddy and I used to smile at each other, revel in the quiet, but we were always so grateful to have them in our lives. After he died, Laura spent more and more time with me. The children became my refuge. Their silliness and innocence had pulled me through the darkest of days.

Of course, Laura had been at the centre of most of that silliness and mayhem when she’d been here. She’d played with a lack of self-consciousness and a joy that she hadn’t been so free with in her own childhood. It fed both my heart and my soul to see them together. God knows I tried, once she died, to keep some of the fun, some of that adventure going with the children, but their lives were never going to be the same. They simply couldn’t be.

They didn’t want to play any more at building forts, or towers, or having picnics in the barn. Those were ‘mummy things’. Doing them without her was too painful, no matter how I tried. They’d arrive at my house like little grey shadows of the children they once were. Smaller, quieter, haunted. Afraid to step into the shadows of the farmhouse as if every nook and cranny held a dark secret. Slowly, gently, I coaxed them not exactly out of their grief, but just a little further from the centre of it, and we made our own routines. They helped me to heal, too. Those innocent interactions.

We baked. We found programmes to watch together. Ava enjoyed rifling through the books on her mother’s old bookcase in her childhood bedroom, then curling up on the bed and reading. Max, well, he enjoyed taking Izzy out for long walks, when he’d talk to her like only a boy could talk to his dog. I imagined Izzy heard a lot of secrets.