“It is wrong. But not if you’re rescuing him.”

All afternoon, Mum points out the good parents and the bad ones. She tells me what to look for, like people on their phones and kids being allowed to wander off. She says not everyone is cut out to be a parent, and I block out the tiny feeling pushing through, because she left me on my own with Will and I didn’t want that.

At dinner, Mum says, “Tell your dad what we learned today,” and it feels like a trick.

I stare at her, and she says, “It’s okay. Your father and I have discussed it, and we think it’s for the best.” But the look on his face says something else. He just stares at the table until I ask to get down.

When he kisses me good night, I ask if he’s angry, and he says, “No, sweetheart. I’m not angry with you.”

“Mum wants me to…”

“It’s okay. I know what your mum wants. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

There’s a noise behind him, and she’s standing outside my room and doesn’t look happy.

He kisses me again and closes my door, but I open it and listen to them arguing.

“We need help,” Dad says. “This won’t solve anything.”

“You’re wrong,” Mum says. “This is the only solution. What do you want to do…tell the police our son is dead because I left him with our daughter, and we hid it for weeks because…why? They won’t believe me. It will be the end of us.”

I can’t sleep, because my eyes sting. I stay in my own bed, even though I need a cuddle, and think of Will.

Dad said I don’t have to, but I do.

There are only three of us left, and it feels like we’re falling apart.

IIII IIII I

“Are you ready?” Mum asks, and I nod because we’ve been practicing a long time.

“This is different,” she says. “This is real.”

She doesn’t need to point at them, because I knew right away. There are three children and two adults.

The dad is pushing an empty cart, and the mum is shouting at a girl who’s probably about eight. The other girl is older and seems angry, but it’s the boy I’m focused on. He doesn’t look like he’s with them because he’s so far behind, and no one checks that he’s following them, not even his sisters.

When Will was alive, Mum or Dad would hold his hand, and he would get annoyed and say, “Amy, Amy,” until his fingers gripped mine. This little boy has no hand to hold, and he’s losing sight of his family, but he doesn’t cry, because he must be used to it.