‘Come and sit down for a minute, Jen.’

She ignored him and resumed her pacing. She wished for a time when Jake had listened to her, really listened, his little face turned up to hers, absorbing every word she said. When she had been the only female in his life.

More and more often she found herself longing for the time when her boys were little. Full, golden days that had stretched out with endless promise, days of playing and stories and bath times and naps and going to the park with the double buggy. Long days that were pure and simple and planned out from start to finish. What in the world could compete with a beautiful, sleepy, contented baby dozing on your chest? Nothing. Nothing at all.

At the time, other mothers had complained of the routine, of the long hours, of the sleepless nights. But not Jennifer. She missed those days with an ache deep in her chest, a physical pain that sometimes kept her awake at night. Life before her boys was a blur, as if it belonged to someone else entirely – as if those years weren’t really important enough to remember. Sometimes she would watch the home videos of when they were little, toddling and laughing and playing up to the camera, and she’d find herself with tears running down her face.

She longed for the days when they relied on her completely, when she was the centre of their world. For the last few years, as her boys had grown bigger and taller and more distant, it felt as though a vacuum was growing inside her, a hollow space that Jake and Ethan no longer wanted to occupy.

She longed to feel whole again, for something to fill the void that was left behind.

Her mobile pinged with a new message and she checked the screen, firing off a quick message in reply before stowing the phone in her pocket.

‘I can’t be passive about this, Ali,’ she said. ‘I can’t just sit and watch like a spectator.’

‘Why do you feel that way?’

‘You know why, after what happened.’

‘Let’s talk about Jake, then. Let’s break his behaviour down and think about how we can best respond to—’

‘Do you have to be so damn analytical all the time? Can you not just think like a father, rather than a therapist?’

‘I can do a better job as a father if I use what I know. My professional knowledge.’

Jennifer turned to look at her husband, who was sweating lightly in a maroon vest top and blue shorts.

‘Sometimes I wish that you were a traffic warden, an estate agent – a damn bus driver.’

‘If I’d been a bus driver we would probably never have met, my dear.’