I go upstairs to my own bathroom and lock the door and piss, a blessed relief. I wash my hands and my face and brush my teeth and stare at my reflection, its component parts, none of them connecting into anything that makes sense. I feel better, though. Cleaner anyway.

The kids are with Avery in the living room. When I come downstairs, I find her hitting buttons on the remote, scowling in confusion.

She glances at me. “They wanted a movie. Is that okay? I can’t get it to work.”

“Power’s out.”

“Oh.” She draws into herself as she processes that, crossing her arms tightly. She’s as unnerved by that bit of news as Hugh was. She turns to the kids, brightening. “Shall we read a book, then?”

Emma lets out a disappointed whine, the prelude to what promises to be an epic tantrum. I scoop her up and tickle her before it can take hold.

She giggles wildly, her forehead scrunched like she’s trying to stay angry. “I want ride on the pony!”

“Oh my God,” I groan. “Baby! There’s no pony!”

Avery grins in apology. “She might mean me?”

“No! The pony out dere!” Emma points out the window so forcefully I nearly drop her. I set her down gently and let her crawl away. “It’s your pony, Mummy.”

I shake my head. “Well, that’s nice, I guess.”

“It’s pretty.” She presses her hands to the glass.

Charlie does a headstand on the sofa and watches me upside down. “I want some orange juice.”

His neck twists to one side, and I fight a surge of panic.

“Yes, sure, and how about a picnic?” I ask him. “Out on the lawn. American-style. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—”

“Peanut butter and jam,” he groans. I am, somehow, already embarrassing. I’m going to have to succumb to the British vernacular sooner or later.

“And jaaaaaaam.” I smile. “Raspberry?”

“Blackberry, please.”

Emma whirls around, imaginary pony forgotten. “Buh I want a jelly!”

“If we have any jelly powder, you can have jelly.” I give an exaggerated groan of my own, the trials of motherhood played for comic effect, everything normal, day-to-day life, nothing awful, nobody dead, nothing wrong.

Avery grins. “I’ve never tried peanut butter and jam.”

“You’re joking!” I nudge her with my shoulder. “Oh my gosh, we need to fix that, don’t we?”

She looks so dubious, I let out a surprised laugh.

“You don’t have to try it, Ave. Have whichever sandwich you want. Raid the kitchen, seriously.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s, Lord, ah, your husband said to stay in the house.”

Charlie sits, watching me.

“Oh,” I say.

“We could spread a blanket in here, maybe?” She gestures to the hearth rug.