Ethan had been aggressive towards them both before, and he’d bordered on violence, squaring up to his dad more than once. But he’d never lashed out at them like he had the previous day. Certainly never hit his own mother. That was a new low from which Grant struggled to see a return.

Mary shook her head. ‘I used to think that too, but it’s just not true, is it? It can’t be. If we’d really tried everything, then that wouldn’t be our Ethan.’

In reality Grant felt the same; that he and Mary were the ones to blame.

Thirty minutes later Grant and Mary were sitting at the breakfast table in their lavish country-style kitchen, silently eating bowls of penne arrabbiata, a favourite of Grant’s. The irony wasn’t lost on him that the literal translation of the fiery sauce’s name was ‘angry’.

As Grant began to wipe his empty bowl clean with a piece of bread, Annie finally made an appearance in the kitchen doorway, some fifteen minutes after Mary had called her down.

‘Mum!’ Annie shouted, when she saw Mary’s face. ‘What the—?’

‘Come and eat your tea, sweetie,’ Mary said, the look on her face suggesting she was as embarrassed by the bruise as she was sad or angry.

Annie stormed over and plonked herself down on a chair, her cheeks reddening.

‘Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong? What happened?’

‘We didn’t want to worry you.’

‘What’s going on, Mum? Why have you got a black eye?’

Mary looked over to Grant for help.

‘Ethan came over yesterday,’ Grant said.

‘Ethan hit you?!’ Annie shrieked. ‘That piece of sh—’

‘Language!’ Grant shouted.

‘Sorry,’ Annie said, hanging her head. ‘I just can’t… I can’t believe he’d do that. God, I really hate him.’

Mary shook her head. ‘Don’t say that. He didn’t mean it.’

‘Yes he did,’ Grant said. ‘He knew exactly what he was doing. Don’t you stick up for him now.’

Mary huffed and got up from her seat. She snatched Grant’s empty bowl away from him and padded over to the Belfast sink that looked out over the large back garden.

‘Why would he do that?’ Annie asked Grant, quietly.

‘Best not to think about it. He certainly won’t get away with it again. The police wanted us to press charges.’

‘The police were here again? Why are you only telling me this now?’

Grant didn’t really have an answer for that. Mary said nothing, doing a good job of keeping herself out of the conversation.

‘Why didn’t you press charges?’ Annie asked.

‘Because he’s still our son. Your brother.’

‘Are you sure about that? Maybe he was swapped at birth or something.’

Annie smiled mischievously and Grant reciprocated.

‘I can still hear you both,’ Mary snapped from the sink, clearly not impressed.