My phone rings. It’s Tom again. What does he want now? Anger seeps through the cracks in my tolerance. I want to tell him to go away and leave me out of it. Sort out the problem, Tom. He promised he would not let the situation damage our family but here he is having difficulty getting his horse over the first hurdle.

When the ringing stops, it’s replaced with the beep of a message.

She’ll be here at five this evening.

The social worker. Does he think I’m going to sit in the room with him while he explains that the kid is not coming to live with us? No. You’re on your own, Tom. Just like you were the night you shagged his mommy.

By three o’clock my head feels like it belongs to Anna. Thumping. My mind is going backwards and forwards. It’s not like I can ask anyone else. Hey, what did you do when you found out your husband had a secret child and the child’s mother was murdered? I’m pretty sure even if I put it on one of those Google chat forums I wouldn’t find one other person in the whole world to share the experience with.

Two hours of utter stress pass, my mind imagining all sorts of scenarios, none of them good. Was it just a coincidence that person came into our garden the same night the mother of Tom’s other child was killed? Or were they there for a reason? What if it was the killer? What if they had got into the house? What if they come back?

When the clock allows it, I grab my bag and coat from the staffroom. Time to collect the boys and head home. The fiver tip that Christina Murray gave me falls from my pocket so I hand it to Louise, the new trainee, who is also getting ready to go home. Her eyes light up like she’s never had a fiver before. She’s probably broke. First-year trainees don’t get enough to pay for their bus fare never mind have a lunch. But that’s the hair game, that’s how we all trained. Gradually increasing our income, increasing our skills, until eventually qualifying and ending up with lots of money for our husbands to lose. Don’t be so cynical, Sally, not everyone is married to a fucking idiot.

With Cian and Aaron in the back of the car, I head for home praying that the social worker has left before I get there. I text Tom to make sure the coast is clear. I’m not allowing myself to be judged by some do-gooder who wants to pump me with guilt for not opening my arms wide enough to welcome a stranger into my life.