The other night morning, around five o’clock, I was ripped from sleep by my son. Nothing new there, though it happens only from time to time. But where I’m used to a piercing keen of despair, this cry was altogether different.

‘Hey!’ No tears, no terror. Just trying to get our attention. ‘Heeey!’

I threw the covers off, grumbled, and stomped across the floor. Kelly says I swore, probably because I tripped over her sneakers.

I opened Ian’s door and stuck my head through the crack. ‘What?’ He was sitting on his knees, and he tilted his head to the side. He gave a little shrug and said, matter-of-factly, ‘I have to go tinkle.’