9 Earlier that morning, 8.40am.
‘Harry, come on. We’ll be late if you don’t hurry up.’
It’s a familiar sound on a Saturday morning in this house. Brendan’s always firm but fair with the boys. He rarely raises his voice to them, and when he does they know they must have done something seriously wrong.
Most of the time, just that extra touch of sharpness lets them know it’s their last chance, and they do as they’re told. I wish they did that with me.
‘Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast?’ I ask him, as he wraps his arms around me.
‘I’m sure. I’ll grab something while we’re out.’
It’s the same exchange we have every week, but I’d feel dreadful if I didn’t ask. I know he’s a big boy and can either make his own breakfast or go to a café, but that’s not the point. It’s just another p
