Yesterday had been so robust—in blue-skied welcoming London, help with the children for one last day, rushing through shops, even the nappy service man remembering her and calling her by name, Mrs. Hughes, still her name—cooking dinner had felt celebratory, the chops sizzling deliciously on her new stove, the bright sprinkle of parsley over her own garden’s boiled potatoes. And later, it wasn’t just insomnia but excitement that kept her up late papering the cupboard shelves. She’d left the dishes at the sink. She’d forgotten to purchase washing-up liquid, would have to do that today. This morning, the distasteful battlefield she’d abandoned would haunt her: beads of blood jellied on the bone, edges of shredded pink, cooked smell of flesh. The single heater was doing a perfectly adequate job of taking the chill off the nursery. She’d dress the children first, then they’d all face breakfast and the day’s momentous events.

Diaper pins clasped on Nick, rubber pants tugged on. “My girl, what about you?” she asks Frieda, giggling now with her baby brother. “Let’s see about your pants.” At night, Frieda, too, wears plastic pants over a diaper, though during the day she has graduated to thick, cotton training pants. Lately she has been staying dry some nights; this has been one. “What a big girl! You’re all dry. Shall we go to the potty?” Frieda, who will be three in April, is nodding and grinning.