Shoes off! I shouted, putting the sound too much into my throat, so that it felt scraped, worn away. Jake stood at the doors with me, laughing at the sight of ten miniature pirates bouncing together, patches wobbling, swords pointing in the air. I watched him, amazed by the way he was able to find this funny rather than disturbing. I leaned into him, slightly, tried to absorb it by osmosis: this relaxed delight, the slight distance that seemed the key to enjoying parenting. I tried not to think of how much easier it was for the husband – the way family could be secondary, without excuses or apologies. We stood like that for two seconds, maybe three, soaking up the sunshine, its heat so like the warmth of love on our faces.

There was a broken scream from the trampoline, a stuttering yelp that turned to silence for a moment before erupting into a pure, baby-­like cry. The children stopped bouncing abruptly, the netting sides settling back into place. And from the middle of them, two of the children – Paddy, and his friend Thomas – moved forwards. They were covered in blood.

It had been briefly exhilarating, to be given so many children to look after, when I knew I was barely capable of looking after two. As their parents left them – looking relieved, barely bothering to make small talk – I felt almost like confirming my credentials, my qualifications in child rearing. But I had none. I just smiled and tried to look competent, mature, motherly.

Now, with two injured children moving towards me, blood dripping from their noses, from their eyes, from their chins, I could see this was a mistake. I was no mother. I was a silly girl who had slipped and ended up in this kind of life. But I could play the role, as I always had. I rushed forwards, and Jake rushed forwards. I went towards Thomas first, looked at his face in the high sharp focus of panic. I could see straight away that there was one cut causing all the blood, maybe two inches across his forehead, a tear in the usual smoothness, an aberration. He’s okay. This from Jake. He has a nosebleed.

I realized he was talking about Paddy, felt a rich rush of guilt at the way I had focused my attention on the other boy.

They must have bumped heads, or – I looked down at Paddy’s hand, which held a small wooden sword.

That’s not your sword, love, I said, realizing what must have happened. He’d borrowed someone else’s, this strangely sharp thing, it must have jabbed Thomas by mistake – or on purpose – as they bounced. I prayed silently that it was an accident. Please, please.