the park. I’ve always felt secure here, comforted by the constant noise of the London suburb, knowing that there is always someone around.
Charlie wolfs down his food as I push mine around the plate. How am I going to tell him his father’s left us, that he lives somewhere else now? How can I say it in a way that will cause the least amount of damage? I remember when my own parents divorced, how convinced I’d been that it was my fault. I don’t want him to feel the same way.
‘How was school?’ I ask, trying to keep things normal. I usually ask him on the way home, but I’ve been so distracted by the tension between me and Richard that I forgot today.
‘It was OK.’
‘Just OK?’ His eyes are downcast. I reach across the table and touch his arm. He moves it away. A part of me wishes I hadn’t said anything, that I could have just enjoyed his simple pleasure at being given fish fingers.
He’s silent now, and I can see him swinging his legs back and forth under the table. I wonder if he’s anxious because Richard isn’t here, or if something happened at school. He had some trouble with a few of the other kids at the beginning of term, but I thought that had been sorted out.
I look at my watch. Forty-five minutes until my new clients arrive. I need to hurry up.
I rush through Charlie’s bath, all the time wishing Richard was here to help. Even though there’s not much time, I let Charlie play with his green boat and squirt me with his toy octopus. As I rub soap over my son’s little body, I realise that this is the first day of the rest of my life. My evenings are going to be like this every day from now on. I won’t have anyone to help. I won’t get a break. And once Charlie’s gone to bed, I’ll face the evening alone, with just the television for company. I wrap my son in his towel and hold him tightly, breathing in his scent and the fragrant smell of his bath wash.
‘I love you,’ I say.
‘I love you too, Mummy.’ I wipe a tear on the back of his towel before he sees.
In his bedroom, I read him his favourite story about a dinosaur who’s afraid of the dark and then kiss him goodnight. He wraps his little arms around my neck and kisses me on the cheek.
‘Don’t be sad, Mummy,’ he says. ‘Things will be better in the morning.’
He’s repeating the words I said to him over and over again when he was crying because he wasn’t fitting in at school. I thought I’d managed to keep my sadness hidden, but my kind little boy can sense it. I see the tiny frown on his brow, the perceptive eyes. And I can’t stand the fact that my four-year-old feels the need to comfort me, when I’m the one who should be keeping him safe.
‘I’m not sad,’ I insist as I kiss him once more. Then I quickly turn off the light and escape to the landing, where I allow my tears to fall.
It’s ten minutes before I manage to stop crying and go to the room at the front of the house where I conduct my counselling. I need to calm down before my clients arrive. Danielle and Peter. A couple visiting me for marriage counselling. If I didn’t feel so full of despair, I’d laugh at the irony.
Instead I go through my usual routine to centre myself before they arrive. I light the candle on the coffee table and close my eyes. The calming scent of lavender fills the room, cleansing the air. I need to empty my head. I’m full of anger at Richard, that he could leave me like this, leave our son. How can I provide marriage counselling when my own relationship has just imploded? But it’s too late to cancel.
I think of my little boy alone in his room. He didn’t seem himself tonight, and I know he’s worried about me. What if he wakes up and needs me? Richard would normally be at home to check on him. But if it’s just me in the house, then who will go to him if he calls out? I’ll have to leave the door ajar.
A wave of nerves threatens to overwhelm me, all my anxieties bubbling up inside me. I think of the couple coming to see