I returned service, but it had already stung me.

‘I’m fine. The kids are fine.’

As I said it, I eyed myself in the hallway mirror. I did look fine. A bit tired, but I was a full-time single working parent, for God’s sake. I’d lost weight and my cheekbones were more defined. My hair was more blonde and my eyes brighter. Yet the doubts, as ever, crept in. To me, yes, but how did I look to everyone else?

Depression is usually more obvious to significant others than it is to the person suffering. Things can seem perfectly normal until a relative mentions that they aren’t washing enough or they are staying in bed all day. I checked myself mentally on the HADS depression scale. Was I depressed? On you went.

‘I’m taking them to Italy. We’ll be eating in some smart restaurants and I can’t possibly take them there in those kinds of clothes. Washed out and—’

‘I thought you said that they weren’t washed? Make your mind up. Washed out or not washed?’

Another fucking elongated pause. Then the triumphant pitch that I know so well. The tone of victory and superiority.

‘Dirty. Dirty, Caroline.’

It stung. It’s every mother’s worst nightmare: that someone criticises the way you look after your kids. I felt something about me shrink. When my voice finally escaped, it was involuntarily raised several octaves.

‘They’re not dirty, Jack. They have a bath or a shower every day.’

‘I meant their clothes. Laura had the same socks on two days running last week. Those red and yellow stripes.’

‘Yes, she did. And I’d washed them in between.’

And there it was. I’d engaged. That engagement lasted from that moment until the next thinly guised complaint. You picked them up at 10 a.m. on Saturday morning with a cheery, ‘Come on, kids, let’s go shopping,’ and a sly side glance at me.

I was going to paint their bedrooms. I’d already bought the paint and had the rollers ready. Instead, I drove to the local Asda and bought a trolley-load of cleaning stuff. Bleach, detergent, floor cleaner, polish, washing powder, toilet cleaner. You name it, I had it.

I spent the next week either cleaning or sitting in my office thinking about cleaning. I scrubbed until my hands were red raw. On the Friday afternoon I checked into a local health spa and had my hair and nails done. Then I went late-night shopping in Manchester and bought the kids a full wardrobe of new clothes each and myself new black jeans and a white top.