‘Once upon a time, there was a man made of wood who felt his life choices had distanced him from his family. And one day, after turning to drink and drugs, he –’

‘That’s not the words,’ Oliver said, teary.

‘I like it,’ Sophie said.

‘I was improvising,’ I said. ‘It’s in the style of Stick Man.’

Sarah had chosen me, not Nikau, because she’d wanted to have my children.

‘Too boring,’ Oliver said, his fists falling onto the mattress. ‘I hate this story.’

‘What about your guitar?’ Sarah said.

‘Oh?’

She hadn’t summoned the wand of thunder for years. I’d serenaded her with it, written songs for her, put some of her favourite poems to music. She’d even sung them – Sarah, singing … it had been a while. I got up slowly – fuck, my back – tuned the strings in the dining room, brought the guitar through to the bedroom. Sarah snuggled under the doona with Sophie, Oliver walked his rhino along his pillow. I sat on the costume box, played and sang ‘Goodnight’ by The Beatles – ‘Boring, please stop, Dadda’ – and ‘Edelweiss’ from The Sound of Music.

‘I liked that,’ Sophie said.

‘It was very nice.’ Sarah yawned, got out of Sophie’s bed, turned to arrange the covers, kissed Sophie, moped across to Oliver.

I propped the neck of the guitar against the wall, switched off the light, got to my knees, hugged Sophie, chewed my chewy – nobody wanted to smell joint-breath at five years old. A cough. A raspy one.

‘I love you, sweetheart,’ I whispered. ‘More than anything.’

‘More than Oliver?’ she whispered.

I looked over my shoulder at Oliver, turned to face her again. ‘No, the same.’

‘More than Mummy?’

‘I love you all more than anything.’

Sarah left the room. I got to my knees, hugged Oliver. ‘I love you more than anything.’

‘I don’t care.’

Sarah returned, placed cups of water next to the beds. ‘OK, off to sleep now, little darlings.’

‘We’re not sleepy,’ Sophie said.

‘You are, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘You’re exhausted.’

Sarah stood in the centre of the room, assumed her Rumi-reading pose. ‘The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don’t go –’

‘Does this ever end?’ Oliver said.

‘Mate,’ I said, still kneeling next to his bed.

He grimaced, yawned, closed his eyes.

Sarah looked at Sophie, whispered, ‘The door is round and open. Don’t go back to sleep …’

I stood and pulled their door nearly all the way closed, followed Sarah through the kitchen, into the laundry. ‘Hey, give that here, I can help.’ I took the bundle of clothes.

I had to text Biddy to let her know I’d be there after showering, eating, dressing, exposing Sarah as a bald-faced liar by omission, doing the dishes … I started shoving jeans and school clothes into the machine.