‘Do you want salad or peas?’ I shout through to him, and he yells back, ‘Peas!’ just as I knew he would, but I always ask him anyway; he gets less tetchy when I give him a choice.

I click on the kettle and bang the bag of peas against the counter to break up the lump that’s formed in there. The biting cold in my hands feels good, feels like something; a sensation, a pain to keep me steady inside myself. Charlie comes back through in jogging bottoms and a T-shirt with a dragon on it. His arms look thin; he becomes more gangly each time he grows.

‘So you had a good day?’ I prompt, my voice cheerful and bright as he slides onto his chair at the kitchen table.

He shrugs one shoulder. ‘Yep,’ he says. ‘We learned about the Ancient Egyptians. When you die, they pull your brains out through your nose.’ He grin-grimaces up at me and I get another flash of it – the shrunken body on the sofa – and I fight not to think about it: dying, dead, death.

The oven is at temperature now; I swallow as I slide in the tray of breaded fish.

‘So it was all right, in the end, with Ms Simmons?’ I have to lift my voice so he can hear me over the noise of the kettle boiling. Charlie’s normal teacher has had to take time off for a major operation and they’ve brought in a substitute. Charlie was already in a mood this morning; he said he didn’t want to go into class, and I could see his temper flaring. I felt myself go rigid, crouching down in the primary school corridor, telling myself he was just a kid, who had a personality, who had moods. Crushing down the panic in my chest, hammering out a promise for him, a bribe, anything to make him stop. Telling him, Please Charlie, just go in and I’ll take you to the park for a whole hour after school. Come on, Charlie, go in, for me.

And it’s only now that I realize, after all the drama and confusion of the day, that I haven’t kept my promise to him at all.

I grip the handle of the oven, waiting for his reply.

‘I liked her,’ Charlie says, sitting up straighter. ‘She’s funny, she told us a joke.’

I unclench my hand. ‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘Really good.’

I slip him my iPad to play with while I cook. To keep him calm; to keep myself calm. He is tired and hungry now, flagging after a busy day at school. Which means over-stimulated. Fatigued. His head lolls as he swipes at the screen. Before I can stop myself, I find myself cupping my hands over his ears, straightening him. Correcting it. Charlie scowls, pushing my hands away.

‘Stop it,’ he says.

I step back.