She knew mothers weren’t supposed to admit that they had favourites. Of course they said they didn’t. But deep down they all knew; they were just prevented from saying it out loud because it was part of the carefully constructed fiction that parents maintained. Like how you were supposed to say that day care was just the same as parental care, as if somehow letting your babies be looked after by total strangers was just as good as looking after them yourself. Just as good for your baby’s development, just as good for socialisation and motor skills and language acquisition. How was that even logical? How could it even be half-true?

It was one of her biggest regrets – now, more than ever – that she’d decided not to do the logical thing ten years ago and home-school Jake and Ethan. For once in his life, Alistair had put his foot down when it came to the boys and insisted that they go to a regular school, so Jennifer had done the next best thing and got herself a job there, in the office, so she could be near them. So she could look after them.

Because, of course, it was true that a mother’s care was better than a stranger’s.

And of course it was true that every mother had a favourite.

It wasn’t Ethan’s fault that his brother had stuff going on that needed his mother’s attention. That was just how things were. She’d read somewhere that second children were more resilient than firstborns because they had never had the experience of being an only one. Ethan was pragmatic, like his father – he just got on with things, even as a baby he’d been the same. He didn’t mind not being the centre of attention; he was much more self-contained than Jake.

Jake was her special one.

At first, she’d thought Alistair was laid-back in his parenting style just to balance her out. To create an equilibrium between them – her responsible parenting on one side of the scales, his let them get on with it approach on the other. But over time she’d realised it wasn’t anything deliberate on his part, it was just the way he was. With everything. Which was fine when the boys were little, but now it seemed almost irresponsible.

Alistair sat forward in his seat, clasping his hands together.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘How about this: we all go down there, all four of us. We walk down into the gorge, talk to the boys, find out what they’re thinking, make sure they’re aware of the dangers of the terrain and the consequences of a fall from that kind of height. We talk it through with them, articulate it clearly, ensure they’re fully cognisant of all the facts, ask them to stay away from the danger. That’s really all we can do.’

‘That’s not enough, Ali.’