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‘Why can’t you ever just have one drink any more? You don’t know when to stop.’

‘You’re a controlling bitch, that’s what you are.’

‘Olly. Don’t do this.’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Olly yells. ‘You’ve never loved me.’

He stands, unsteady, then grabs the plates from my hands and smashes them on the slate kitchen tiles.

I stare at the broken porcelain.

This is what I do when under attack.

Stay still.

I learned, growing up with my mother, not to use teeth or claws against a stronger animal. Camouflage is best. Invisibility has its benefits.

Another plate smashes and I feel a burning on my forehead. Porcelain shards fall on my body, jagged edges clinging to striped fabric. A warm line of blood trickles down the side of my nose and onto my lips. Tears come and, to my relief, Olly’s anger subsides.

‘Here.’ He takes a tea towel and holds it to the blood. ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘You know that John Lennon song? “Jealous Guy”? That’s me. I get scared you don’t love me. You know that.’

‘Of course I love you,’ I say, face wet with tears and blood, hands shaking.

‘I’ll get a bandage,’ says Olly.

I nod, pushing Olly’s Frosties cereal back into the cupboard.

In the same cupboard is a pile of pregnancy leaflets and magazines from the hospital. I really should read those. But right now, that would make everything too real.

Which is why I’ve pushed them between the cereals, out of the way.

When I told Olly about the baby, he was ecstatic, dancing me around the living room, telling me what perfect parents we were going to be. Talking about raising a champion snowboarder. But how quickly that moment passed.

I burst into tears, hands going to my baby bump. This happens almost every day now – Olly getting angry and me crying. An endless, awful cycle. Maybe he’s stressed about the baby, the realities of parenthood closing in.

Usually at this point, Olly would comfort me and apologise. But this time he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at me with contempt, hobbles to the bedroom and slams the door.

On my stomach, I see my fingers trembling. If things are this bad now, what on earth is going to happen when the baby comes?

Lizzie

Tom and I are having supper on the living-room floor – baked beans, jacket potato and peas.

We don’t have a dining table yet, so until I buy one we’re having ‘fun floor-picnics’ at meal times. Tom gets uncomfortable at the breakfast bar.

We’ve unpacked most of the boxes downstairs now, so there’s plenty of space on the floor. The bookshelf has neat rows of books on it and the laundry – although not done – sits in tidy piles ready for the washing machine.

I watch Tom plough his beans and potato into a mashy heap, then fork spoonfuls into his mouth.

He’s sorted the peas into a separate ‘green’ pile and has made the mashed potato turn orange by mixing in the beans.

‘Tommo,’ I say cautiously. ‘Can we talk about what happened at school, then?’

‘I don’t remember,’ says Tom quietly. ‘Honest, Mum. I think Mrs Dudley is making it up.’

‘She says she saw you.’

‘She tells lies sometimes. Probably … another boy did it, but she’s scared of his brother. So I got the blame. Shedidn’tsee. She wasn’t there until later.’