“I’m coming in now to see her,” I say. “Tell her I’m on my way.” I’m not taking the word of Lobotomy Izzie when it comes to the health of my daughter; I want to see for myself if Sophie’s well enough to stay at school. Which means driving the round trip, yet again. And then again at the end of the day, either to pick up both children or, if I bring Sophie back with me early, to pick up Ethan. Fleetingly, I consider collecting them both now to save me having to drive back to school later for the fourth time in one day, but then I realize I can’t make Ethan miss gym, not after I’ve taken in his bag; he’ll be looking forward to playing football or cricket or whatever it is, expecting the rest of his day to unfold predictably and without incident.

I decide that I’ll be brave and try the Elmhirst Road route again. Getting to Sophie as quickly as possible matters more than my fear. If the sand-haired policeman is still there, I’ll stay calm and pretend not to recognize him. Or maybe I’ll wink at him. I can imagine Kate Zilber doing that. Winking isn’t illegal. He wouldn’t be able to warn me or threaten me. A wink proves nothing, and in any case, there has been nothing to prove since I turned good.

THE ROUTINE WHEN SOPHIE and Ethan get in from school at the end of the day is always the same. Panting and groaning, they shrug and wriggle their way out of their coats and shoes in the hall, as if divesting themselves of chains that have bound them for decades, before making a dash for the living room and slamming the door. They have an urgent appointment with the television that nothing would induce them to miss.

I am left to pick up the discards from the hall floor and throw them, in a big pile glued together by wet mud from the soles of football boots, into the coat cupboard; it’s mess relocation rather than tidying up. Adam is patient and always waits until the cupboard’s interior is indistinguishable from a compost heap before he complains. When he does, I either say, “I know. Sorry—I’ll sort it out tomorrow,” or I snap, “If you don’t like it, do something about it,” depending on my mood.

The CBBC channel starts to chatter midsentence. That’s my cue to pour the juice and make the toast. Once they’re on the kitchen table, I call out, “Snack’s ready!”

“Bring it in here!” Sophie yells. She is more vocally militant than her brother, who is happy to be represented by her in all parent-child disputes.

“No!” I shout back.

“Yes! Remember, I was sick! I feel a bit weak!”