I kick up pebbles as we walk until he slows and stops. A stubborn part of me wants to keep going, dogged, but I don’t. I turn to face whatever he needs to say.

“I can’t lose you.” He spreads his arms wide. “Any of you. Can’t do it. Won’t survive it.”

I cock my head the way I do when one of the children is screaming over nothing. “Shush. Stop it. Get it out of your head.”

“I’m glad you don’t believe. I am. Honestly. Bu—”

“Stop.” I don’t want to hear the but. I turn away.

“Mummy!”

Emma’s on the loose, sprinting up the drive in a rhino charge, tilted so far forward I swear she’s about to skin her face.

I kneel to catch her. She shoots past me, her squeals morphing into, “DaddyDaddyDaddy!”

Hugh scoops her up—and up and up—until she’s upside down, giggling wildly and swatting at him. Her blond curls dangle like wind chimes. One more swing and she’s on his hip, nestling in with an enormous grin, and Hugh looks peaceful at last, all creases gone from his face—the sunlit Hugh I see on vacation.

More than actual relief, I feel like I should be relieved, relaxed, calm. As we walk back to the house, all is good, fine, settled, happy, but our feet keep even time on the gravel, left, right, left, right, like a clock is ticking beneath us.

We find Charlie perched on the edge of the long wooden table in the back garden. He hands Sally a strawberry from a plastic bowl and watches, rapt, as her thick fingers form it into a cute little spiral with a paring knife that glints in the sun. She’s already set out cheese on toast, salad, and a jug of black currant cordial with mint from the garden. Max sits tall beside Charlie, waiting for food to fall, a silver stream of drool extending from his hopeful jaw to the grass. It’s all so picturesque.

A few yards past them, I see Avery walking the bricked edge of the flower patch barefoot, one elegant stride after another, her path a perfect curve. When Sally calls out, “Heyo,” not looking up, Avery hurries back to the table as if she were meant to be one of the staff today instead of an invited loiterer.

Sally glances up at us finally. “Ah. You’ve found each other, then.”

I’m fumbling for an answer—just how loaded is that knowing glint in her eye?—but Hugh sets Emma down, plucks a strawberry from the pile, and pops it into his mouth. “We have indeed.”

I motion to the spread. “Can I help?”

“No,” Charlie groans. “You’ll ruin it.”

“It’s fruit! How can I ruin it?” I am actually offended.

“It’s all handled. You relax!” Sally means it as a comfort, but I feel silly. Superfluous. Of course it’s all handled. Everything’s handled. Emma’s found a seat and a plastic plate, and Charlie’s barely even glanced at me since I got back.