But it wasn’t true then either. I loved my mother. I loved her so much that it suffocated her—or that was the impression she gave. All those years of small hands being disentangled from sleeves and skirts, and untwined from around necks. That’s enough now, you’ll mess up my hair, and, Oh, for goodness’ sake, your hands are filthy, and Stop being a baby now, a big girl like you. All those years of being too needy, and too grabby, and too grubby-handed—of trying to be better and neater, and just more lovable.

She didn’t want me. Or that’s what it felt like, at times.

But she was all I had.

Maddie had so much more than me—a father, three sisters, a beautiful house, two dogs . . . but I recognized her sadness and her anger and her frustration—an angry little dark changeling among her blond sisters.

We even looked alike.

When she looked at me, with that touch of triumph in her dark, boot-button eyes, I had recognized something else too, and now I knew what it was. It was a flash of myself in those eyes. A flicker of my own dark brown eyes, and my own determination. Maddie was a woman with a plan, just like I was. The question was, what was it?

I was so tired after my near sleepless night the night before that I bundled the girls upstairs to bed ridiculously early. To my surprise they didn’t protest, and I found myself wondering if they were as tired as I was.

Petra went down with no more than a token protest, and when I went to check on Maddie and Ellie they were both in their pajamas—or almost there, in the case of Ellie. I helped her figure out which way her top went and then shepherded them into the bathroom, where they did their teeth obediently as I stood over them.

“Do you want a story?” I asked as I tucked them into their little beds, and I saw Ellie’s eyes flicker to Maddie, looking for permission to speak. But Maddie shook her head.

“No. We’re too big for stories.”

“I know that’s not true,” I said, with a little laugh. “Everyone likes bedtime stories.”

Any other night I might have sat myself down, cracked open a book, and begun anyway, in defiance of Maddie’s refusals. But I was tired. I was so tired. Being with the girls all day from sunup to sunset was exhausting in a completely different way to the nursery, a way I hadn’t fully anticipated or understood until now. I thought of all the mums who had dropped their children off talking about how exhausted they were, and the slight contempt I’d felt for them when all they had to deal with was one or two at the most, but now I realized what they’d been talking about. It wasn’t as physical as the work at the nursery, or as intense, but it was the way it stretched, endlessly, the way the needing never stopped, and there was never a moment when you could hand them over to your colleague and run away for a quick fag break to just be yourself.

I was never off duty here. Or at least, not for the foreseeable future.

“I tell you what,” I said at last, seeing Ellie’s chin wobble. “How about I put on an audiobook?”

Pulling out my phone, I managed to navigate to the Happy media system, and then to the audio files, where I scrolled through the list of titles. The organization was confusing—there didn’t seem to be any distinction between the different file types, and Mozart was listed alongside Moana, Thelonious Monk, and L. M. Montgomery—but as I scrolled, I felt a little warm head thrust up under my arm, and Ellie’s small hand took the phone.

“I can show you,” she said, and pressed an icon that looked like a stylized panda bear, and then another icon that looked like a flattened out v, but which I realized, as Ellie pressed it, must be supposed to indicate books.

A list of children’s audiobooks flashed up.

“Do you know which one you want?” I asked, but she shook her head, and scanning the list, I selected one at random—The Sheep Pig by Dick King-Smith, which seemed perfect. Long, calming, and nice and wholesome. I pressed play, selected “Girls’ bedroom” from the list of speakers, and waited for the first notes of the introductory music to come out of the speakers. Then I tucked Ellie in.

“Do you want a kiss?” I said. She didn’t reply, but I thought I saw a little nod, and I bent and swiftly kissed her baby-soft cheek before she could change her mind.

Next, I went across to Maddie. She was lying there with her eyes tightly shut, though I could see her pupils moving beneath the paper thinness of her lids, and I could tell from her breathing she was nowhere near asleep.

“Do you want a good-night kiss, Maddie?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be, but wanting to be fair.

She said nothing. I stood for a moment, listening to her breathing, and then said, “Good night, girls. Sweet dreams, and sleep well for school tomorrow,” and then I left, shutting the door behind me.

Out in the hallway I breathed a tremulous, almost incredulous sigh of relief.

Could it be true? Were they really all safely in bed, washed, brushed, and no one screaming? It seemed, compared to last night, anyway, deceptively easy.

But perhaps . . . perhaps I had turned a corner with them. Perhaps that first angry protest was just shock at being away from their mum, with a comparative stranger in charge. Maybe a nice day together and a phone call from Sandra was all it had taken?

My heart softened as I checked the lock on the utility room door, did battle with the front-door panel and the lights in the hall, and then climbed the flights of stairs to my own room with a weariness I was having increasing trouble overcoming.