‘Not now,’ I say with more force than is necessary, throwing him a stern look which I instantly regret doing. His eyes widen at my angry face. His bottom lip wobbles. He doesn’t cry like Chloe would though. Instead he does something that makes me feel a hundred times worse. He sucks it up. Stops himself. Does his little brave face. Why would I make my five-year-old use his brave face? I’m his mother! I’m meant to be the one stopping him having to use that sodding face!

‘Sorry, baby,’ I say, leaning over and rubbing the top of his hand.

‘I want Daddy,’ he declares, his eyes filling with tears, the brave face dropping.

‘I know,’ I nod, feeling his words hammer at my chest. ‘We all miss him, but he’ll be home before we know it. Three sleeps to go,’ I say, making my face resemble something like a smile.

Barnaby nods, uses the back of his hand to wipe his eyes, then continues with his dinner. I hate that his life is disrupted so much and often wonder if things would’ve been simpler, easier and calmer had we not been blessed with such a driven and determined second child.

The problem is Barnaby listens far more than Chloe does. My words seem to carry more weight. I can be stricter, in a way, because he is older and has a few reasonable bones in his body. At least when I say something to him he seems to take it on board most of the time. I just never know what I’m going to get with Chloe.

‘I want chicken nuggets,’ she pouts.

‘We don’t have chicken nuggets. We’re having pasta now …’

‘I don’t like it. It’s spicy,’ she declares, jutting her chin into her neck to get her mouth further away from the plate.

‘You’ve not even tried it yet, Chloe,’ I say, my tone ramping up ever so slightly into desperation.

She simply looks at me and blinks.

I blink back.

‘Chloe?’ I smile. Softly, softly … don’t anger the beast. ‘Think of the Nobbly Bobbly.’

The reminder of the after-dinner treat makes her cock her head to one side. With her eyes still firmly locked on me she reaches across the table, giving me a sense of hope that she’s about to blooming listen and grab her fork and get eating. Instead she picks up her beaker cup, brings it to her lips, and then lets it topple out of her hands and on to the floor. The sodding thing opens and spills everywhere.

‘No, Chloe! No!’ I start, abandoning my own dinner to pick up the cup before running for the kitchen roll.