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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!”
    “You were sick — you’re not now!” Nor was she when I arrived at school to check on her; she looked at me as if I were crazy, told me she had no intention of coming home with me and turned back to her friends. I left empty-handed, a person-with-children temporarily without her children, just as I was this morning in the library parking lot. It was only on my fourth and final trip to school that I came away with what I wanted: Sophie and Ethan in the backseat, and an overwhelming feeling of relief. I can’t fully relax unless they’re under the same roof as me; that’s been true since we moved here from London.
    Kate Zilber’s right: I should probably get some therapy. I’m too anxious. Once, waiting to collect the children at the end of the day, I started to have palpitations because a man looked at me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable: a long-drawn-out superior smirk. He’s one of the school’s most pleased-with-himself Flash Dads. I often see him leaning against his expensive-looking blue BMW in the part of the playground where the showiest parents always wait. His hair is subtly streaked. It looks deliberate, which I know I shouldn’t disapprove of, but I do. There are some things men just shouldn’t do, and streaked hair is right up there alongside cosmetic pubic-hair removal. Though I’ve never seen his child or children, I enjoy imagining them as rebellious teenagers, covered with tattoos and piercings that spell out, “My dad’s an utter cock.”
    “Please, Mum!” Sophie yells from the living room.
    I could refuse again, but what’s the point? I’ll give in eventually; I always do. I don’t know why I bother going through the daily ritual of putting the plates and glasses down on the table in front of two chairs. I think it’s because I like the idea of my children coming into the kitchen and chatting to me, so I create the conditions that will make it possible. Seeing the toast and juice neatly laid out on the table makes me feel like a proper mother.
    We don’t have many rules in our house. The few we do have—like no eating in the living room—are broken every day. Adam thinks it’s stupid and inconsistent to ban things we disapprove of and then allow them to happen anyway. I’m torn. I admire people who don’t allow themselves to be constrained by rules, and cheer inwardly every time my kids demonstrate that they have no intention of obeying me.
    If I believed myself to be a fine, upstanding pillar of the community with a strong moral code, I might feel differently. Who am I to tell anyone how they ought to behave?
    I take the toast and juice into the living room. Sophie tells me to “Shh” before I’ve said a word. Her eyes are glued to the televisionscreen, as are Ethan’s. I say, “Thank you, darling mother,” loudly before leaving the room.
    “Yeah, thanks, Mum,” says Ethan. Three whole words. Amazing. He and Sophie tend to lose the ability to speak for about an hour and a half after they get home from school. They find their voices again at suppertime, after which we usually can’t shut them up until bedtime.
    Having delivered the snack, I pull the living room door closed behind me and hover in the hall, not sure what I’m going to do next. I have a strong suspicion, but that’s not the same as being sure.
    I should get to work in the kitchen. The dishwasher needs unloading and reloading before I can start cooking.
    I shouldn’t, definitely mustn’t, email