THE ARGUMENT IN the car starts the way it always does. One brother’s arm is around the other’s shoulders, the two are wrestling, both are laughing and then the eldest uses too much force, the youngest screams and from the front seat I swear. It’s as if it has been scripted, except…

‘It’s different with you here,’ I say to my husband. ‘One of them sits in the front when you’re not here. There’s no arguments.’