He’d been living with us for a week and a day and I needed a piss and would have to do it in the backyard if he didn’t hurry up, hurry up, Zac, hurry up.

I stood at the pantry cupboard, door in hand, despondent. The bathroom door opened – my prodigal son! A blast of cardamom and cedar.

‘Morning,’ he said, smiling.

‘Morning.’

Soft face, clean skin, nice grooming, fitted shirt and stripy tie, his sleepwear and towel bundled in his arms.

‘Tea?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, glasses glinting, hurrying past.

‘Breakfast, kids,’ I shouted, heading into the bathroom, door open, standing, pissing – oh blessed relief.

‘What is it?’ Oliver shouted from his room.

‘Muesli,’ I shouted. ‘Come on.’

‘I hate muesli,’ he shouted.

‘Oh, mate …’ I flushed, washed my hands, bellowed, ‘There’s nothing else.’ I grabbed the milk from the fridge, slammed the door, gathered some spoons from the drawer.

‘Daddy,’ Sophie said, coming into the kitchen, ‘my dress has four pockets.’

‘Four pockets?’ I said. ‘That’s amazing, sweetheart. What are you going to put in them?’

‘Hmm, maybe some frogs.’

‘Great idea. Can you come eat your breakfast, sweetheart?’ I poured some milk into her bowl, shouted, ‘Olly, please. Can you come through and get your breakfast?’

‘Why do I need to get it?’ he shouted. ‘I thought I was meant to eat it.’

Cheeky little –

‘So, I’ll get Oliver and Sophie from Aftercare,’ Zac said, returning to the kitchen, leather bag strap draped diagonally over his chest.

‘Yeah, sure. Thanks, man.’

Sarah had registered him as a guardian at the school so he could sign them in and out with impunity. ‘I’ll be home … I don’t know, maybe five-thirty.’

‘All good, boss.’

‘Here’s your tea.’

‘Thanks. I’ll get the rest of those dishes later.’

‘Olly, come get your breakfast, mate.’

‘No,’ he shouted.

‘Mate, no more iPad then.’

‘Fine.’

I looked at Zac. ‘You don’t need to do the dishes. But, yeah, if you want to …’

He didn’t need sympathy for his loss, he kept saying. He’d appreciated Sarah’s message on our condolence card – Rumi something, loss something, redemption something – but hadn’t lingered on the sentiment. We just had to load him up with tasks, however menial, and he’d do them: the dishes, the laundry, the shopping, scrubbing the toilet, the child care.

Sarah had read to him from her dream journals, gave him permission to dip in and read them at will whether she was at home or not. He liked the symbolism, he’d said; it brought him comfort.