Jake had grown up near the sea. He was healthier by the ocean, he always said, his breathing and sleeping easier. Something in the atmosphere made his hair even curlier, as though he was returning to his true self. Today, I craved the smell at the edge too, its sharpness, gulls circling above fish, snatching them as they flickered into sight. We seemed to need this rawness, the place where comprehensible life gave way to mystery, salt water, death. Perhaps, I found myself thinking, this would heal Jake, heal both of us. Make everything better.

We crunched across the gravel path that led to the beach, the boys running ahead, their feet hitting sand before ours did, sinking deeply. On the shore, the sun was bitterly bright, completely unobstructed; I could see for miles, further than I ever remembered being able to before. It reminded me of the first time I wore glasses, aged eleven or twelve, the way the world suddenly became clear, complicated, every tree with separate leaves, every distant person with their own particular features.

Jake played with Paddy, showing him how to skim stones, bending down at an angle, releasing flat shapes over the water. The waves were too big; the stones kept falling instead of skipping. I tried to get Ted interested in making a castle, but the wind blew sand in his eyes. He cried, buried his face in my chest, his hair flying upwards, teardrops raw on his cheeks. I rocked him from side to side, pressing my nose to his sweet-­head smell, watching Jake and Paddy play their game against the sea, their bodies almost silhouettes in the glaring light.

We ate our picnic lunch in the dunes, the wind and sun less brutal here, facing the marshes instead of the churning ocean. This part of the coast was a nature reserve, a haven for rare birds and rodents, pure green stretches in sight of the nuclear dome. The boys were calmer away from the sand and waves, with food in their stomachs. They balanced along the wooden boardwalks across the marshes, their legs teetering above the waving grasses, their arms wide out for balance. It was parental perfection: they were free, but we could see them, could – if needed – swoop down at any moment.

I smiled at a silly wave Paddy was doing at us, sticking his bottom out, his hands flapping by his face. I saw Jake watching too, but he wasn’t smiling. He hadn’t eaten much, just a couple of crisps, a few bites of an apple before sailing it into the dunes.

How are you feeling now? I forced the words out slowly, continuing to watch Paddy.

Better. He pulled up a clump of sea-­grass beside him, tossed it away.

The boys seemed to have invented a game now, Paddy in the lead, directing his little brother with his finger.