‘Oh, honey, I meant to ask – Daddy said he gave you a letter for me on Friday? You put it straight into your rucksack, but I didn’t find it. Have you put it somewhere else?’

His forehead crinkles. ‘Sorry, I forgot about it. But I didn’t take it out so it must be in there still.’

‘Okay – maybe I missed it. I’ll check again.’ I tuck the duvet all around him, making sure I push it in under his legs just as he likes it. He hates the feeling of any air reaching him. He couldn’t be more opposite to Finley, who is often sprawled over the bed, duvet abandoned on the floor. I kiss him goodnight, flick on the night light on his bedside cabinet and close the door. He calls out, telling me to leave it open “a crack”. I think he’s still unsettled following last night’s bad dream.

I pop into Finley’s room and find him at his desk, facing the computer, brandishing a controller as though it were a sword.

‘What are you up to?’

‘Fighting aliens,’ he says without his attention leaving the screen. I was against him having a computer in his bedroom. I’d been adamant there would only be one, and it would reside in the lounge, where I could always keep an eye on what they were doing. But, after the split, Nick left his old computer here and told Finley he could have it as long as it wasn’t connected to the internet. Basically, it’s a glorified games console. The laptop, which I ensure stays downstairs, is the only device they can use to look things up on the net. And then only with me present. It’s a sign of the times, I tell the boys if they ask why I’m being so strict. I don’t want to make too big a thing of it because it’s second nature – if something is off-limits, or out of bounds, it suddenly becomes more appealing and they’ll do whatever it takes to use it behind my back. I check my watch.

‘Half an hour longer, then bed, mister,’ I say. I go over and kiss him on the top of his head. Thankfully, he’s still allowing me to show some affection. I don’t suppose that’ll last much longer. Soon enough he’ll be going to secondary and batting away any form of sentimental stuff from his mother.

‘Forty-five minutes,’ he counters. There always has to be bartering involved.

‘Forty and you have a deal.’

He smiles. ‘You’re too easy,’ he says.

I raise my eyebrows, but decide not to bite. ‘You didn’t happen to see what Leo did with a letter on Friday, did you? Dad gave it to him in the car.’