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‘So, what happened at school today?’ I ask Tom, tiptoeing over clothes, Lego and football cards.

The argument about the medicine bottle is still looming, but I’ve got no more information out of Tom, no matter how many questions I ask.

I’ve privately resolved to shelve the discussion for now, but I will search Tom’s school bag when he gets home each day. And talk to social services again about the possibility of moving schools.

We’ve just come through our front door, me carrying a brown envelope containing Tom’s class photos.

All the children came out today clutching these envelopes – group photos of the whole class and also individual portrait shots.

Tom looked gaunt and ghostlike when I picked him up, his cheeks shadowy and sucked inwards.

He hasn’t been eating much, that’s why.

‘I’m going up to my room, Mum,’ says Tom.

Tom and I used to sit and talk after school.

But not recently. He’s always ‘too tired’.

I don’t know when this became normal. This separation between us. The not talking.

‘Can’t you at least show me these school photos first?’ I ask. ‘Shall we look at them after I’ve put the kettle on?’

I love photos of Tom. Maybe I’m biased, but he’s so beautiful with his shining golden hair and blue eyes.

He looks like Olly. But personality-wise, he’s more like me. Shy. Polite. Accommodating. Or at least, he used to be.

I put the kettle on and rattle some pink wafers onto a plate.

‘Want a biscuit?’

‘Not hungry,’ Tom replies from the living room.

I hold back a sigh. ‘Okay, sweetheart. Well, let’s look at these photos then.’

‘No thanks.’ Tom throws his school bag over the bannisters and trudges up the hessian-covered steps.

‘Let me guess,’ I say, heart heavy. ‘You’re feeling tired.’

‘Yeah.’

I hear Tom’s breath, laboured on the stairs, and then his bedroom door slams closed.

‘Tom?’ I call up. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

‘Just tired,’ he calls down, voice muffled by wood.

‘You’re sure? You’re not feeling ill?’

‘No!’

I stand for a moment, looking up the stairs, remembering Olly and how he used to talk to me sometimes.

‘Stay up there if you’re going to be grumpy then,’ I shout after him, trying a different tactic.

‘Fine.’

‘I mean it, Tom. Stay in your bedroom. You can come down when you’re ready to be polite. Like the old Tom.’