Miles is away at a conference in Los Angeles for two weeks. So this is it. This is my opportunity. He isn’t here, so he cannot be blamed for what is about to happen.

Teatime. I slip cough linctus into the spaghetti Bolognese I’ve cooked for my grandsons. Easy to do, Saffron, because you are so distracted, checking emails on your iPhone. I use a generous dose, camouflaged with fresh basil and oregano. Cough mixture to make sure that my grandsons sleep well. I gave it to Miles and Aiden regularly when they were babies, to make sure they didn’t wake me in the night. I needed my beauty sleep then, just as I do now. And I am still beautiful, of course. More beautiful than you, my wiry daughter-in-law.

I leave the kitchen and go upstairs. You are responsible for feeding the children and putting them to bed tonight. No one else will be going anywhere near them. In the morning, Hayley will wake them up, feed them and take them to school. You’ll be up at the crack of dawn, off to see a prospective client. Perfect timing. I smile to myself.

I step into my bedroom to be surrounded by frills and flowers. Time passes with a long soak in the bath. Watching a film on Netflix. Spraying my pillow with lavender.

But I can’t sleep. I toss and turn in bed, uncomfortable about what I need to do. Restless until my phone vibrates beneath my pillow at 2 a.m. Already awake, I stretch to tap it off. Relieved to be making a start at last – the sooner this is over the better – I slip out of bed and dress in black slacks and a black polo neck, black tights stretched over my head and face.

Slowly, slowly, I open my bedroom door and creep onto the landing. Tiptoeing across, avoiding the floorboard that always creaks. Past your bedroom. Past Hayley’s. Into Ben’s room, decorated as a tribute to Manchester United. Red walls, Man United’s logo in the middle of each one. I step towards his bed, holding my breath. Asleep on his back, mouth open, arms above his head. Wrapped in his Manchester United duvet. A cheapy from Argos. Not even made of cotton. Why didn’t you take him to Harrods? They have an excellent selection from top designers. One day I’ll make sure he understands what constitutes taste. Do you want him to grow up to be a football hooligan?