Maybe someday when they’re older and we’re all sitting around the dinner table for the kids’ annual visit home, I’ll tell them. And Amber. She needs to hear it too. I’ll tell them it was their precious Daddy who fucked everything up. Not Mommy, Mommy was great.

Oh God, what’s happening to me? Why am I thinking like that? The last thing I want is for my marriage to end. For Amber, Cian and Aaron to have to deal with the pain of a broken home. I cried almost every night for three years after my own mother died. Staying in my room so I couldn’t see what was going on. Blasting the music so I couldn’t hear what was going on. But I couldn’t keep the reality away. It always found me. I will not be the reason any of my children shed a tear.

The car park is almost empty. I pick a spot near the exit on the first floor and step out into the city. Now I’m Sally the hairdresser. A strong breeze attempts to slow my pace but I push on past the stalls and scents, grab a coffee and croissant for Elsie, then cross the road.

‘How are you today, Elsie?’ Handing her the bag, I step into the porch area, Elsie’s bedroom. I wonder what she’d make of my problems. Swap?

‘Good, good.’ She opens the bag. ‘Thanks, Sally.’

‘You’re very welcome.’ And she is. Always has been. And when I’m not in work I make sure one of the other staff members grabs her a breakfast.

‘See you later, Elsie.’

Inside the salon my mood lightens.

‘Morning, Sal.’

‘Morning, Meg.’

‘How’d the weekend go – oh, you had the party, how was that?’

Disastrous, bloody disastrous. ‘Fine, it went well. Glad it’s over for another year though.’

Walking past the reception desk and down to the staffroom, I sing along to Rihanna, happy that she managed to find love in a hopeless place.

The staffroom is empty when I enter. I hang up my coat, fix my hair and top up my lipstick. Just as I’m about to open the door, Anna comes bursting in from the other side almost knocking me out in the process.

‘What the—’ I say, watching her slam open the door to one of the cubicles, her head tilted, trying to hold the puke down before releasing it like an explosion into the bowl.

‘Sweet Jesus, Anna, are you all right?’ I rush towards her. Anna is on her knees with her head stuck in the toilet bowl. Her hair threatens to land in the mess so I hold it out of the way while she continues to vomit. After a few more minutes and with little chance of anything being left in her stomach Anna lifts her head and takes some deep breaths.