Being a parent grounded you. Children didn’t care what you did out there, you existed solely for them. Last month, a day that had started with the adrenaline-high of armed combat and apprehending a target off our most-wanted list had ended with me fishing a poo out of the bath.

For children, parents’ only purpose was to make them happy; to provide, to soothe, to hold. The noise of expectation of what we should’ve achieved, where our lives were going – all of that was quiet with them. You were just a happiness-enabler, a hug-giver, biscuit-provider, bottom-wiper, story-reader. All they wanted was you. To do exactly what they wanted. With such simplicity it should be peaceful.

‘Neeeee nawwww neeee nawwww,’ Gigi was now shouting as she rolled a police car up and down the kitchen floor.

But kids were fucking noisy.

*

By the time she was down after eight stories and three different last-minute requests for toys she just couldn’t sleep without, I was exhausted. I slumped down at the kitchen table opposite Will. His tie was off and an open beer was in his hand. A large pizza box was on the table.

‘Can we talk now about getting away somewhere?’

‘Let me speak to work. I’ll see what I can do.’ I wondered how long I could stall him for.

He took a sip of beer. ‘I feel I never really know what’s going on with you.’

‘Don’t say that. I tell you everything,’ I lied.

‘Most of the time you’re in your own little world. You’re here but you’re not really here. Who knows where your mind is.’

I reached a hand over to his. ‘You realise I’m probably just wondering if I’ve missed the editing cut-off time for the Ocado order?’ I wanted to ask, ‘And what about you? Who the hell is messaging you in the middle of the night?’ But I didn’t. When it came to inappropriate contact I didn’t really feel I had the moral high ground. A few hours ago I had fed another man ice cream.

‘How was your work today?’ I wanted to get him off the subject of my job and onto his. As he started telling me about his day, I thought about how maybe he would be better off with someone like Rochelle. An easier life with a wife who wouldn’t lie to him nearly daily. A wife who would be interested when he talked about his work and not zone out and start wondering what pizza toppings were inside the delicious-smelling box on the table.