I take Elsa home straight after dinner, pushing her up the hill then bumping the pushchair up the three flights of stairs. She tips her head back and watches me. ‘Mama … ma?’ she says.

‘She’s not back yet,’ I say, but as I put the key in the lock I can’t stop myself from imagining – hoping – that we find the flat lit up with candles and fairy lights, and that Mum’s inside, waiting for us.

But just like last night, the flat is dark, cold and empty.

I take Elsa out of her pushchair and kick my way through toys and balled-up nappies. I can’t believe how messy the flat is. Since Elsa was born it’s got worse and worse – that’s one of the reasons I spend so much time in my bedroom. Right now, Pongo can’t even find a space to lie down. After sniffing at a half-buried bowl, he goes and curls up by the front door.

I put Elsa in the empty paddling pool. ‘Time to tidy up,’ I say.

At first, I think it’s going OK. I dump the plates and mugs in the sink and I start to see glimpses of carpet, but then Elsa escapes from the paddling pool and tips out a jigsaw puzzle. She throws the pieces around the room and while I’m picking them all up, she tugs a spider plant off the windowsill, spilling soil all over the carpet and her hair.

I feel the muscles in my body tighten. ‘Elsa!’ I snap, as I go over to her. She looks up with big, innocent eyes. ‘Stop it. I’m trying to make everywhere look nice.’

‘Da!’ she says, holding out some soil.

‘I don’t want any soil. I just want you to stop doing crazy stuff.’

She shrieks and crawls away from me, spreading soil across the room.

While I sort out the plant, she pulls herself up on the bookcase. ‘Da!’ she says, grabbing a book off the shelf and tossing it over her shoulder. ‘Da, da!’ Book after book is thrown on the floor.

‘Stop it!’ My voice is so loud and angry it makes her jump. But she’s not worried: she looks at me, smiles, and drops another book.

Suddenly, I feel so tired that I want to scream. I go to the bookshelf and grab a handful of books. ‘There!’ I say, dropping them. ‘Is that better? Why don’t we throw everything on the floor, Elsa?’ I take another stack of Mum’s fairy and astrology books, only this time I throw them as hard as I can. They spin through the air, pages fanned out, and crash into the wall. Now I’ve started, I can’t stop. Elsa shrinks back as more books fly across the room. Then I run to the mantelpiece and sweep my hand across it, sending candles, incense cones and Mum’s entire collection of Disney Pop! figures tumbling to the floor.

Elsa’s hiding behind her fingers. When I pull Mum’s wind chimes down from the ceiling, she throws herself on the floor and starts to sob and I stand there watching her, my heart thudding, rage still prickling my skin. Elsa looks so pathetic lying on the carpet with her bottom stuck up in the air, but something inside me – a mean feeling – stops me from going over to her.