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“I’m Marmaduke,” he said, surly.

“You are. What an absolutely brilliant name.”

“It sucks.”

Okay. We were like that then.

“Dylan, do you need a hand?” I tried, turning around to find Dylan standing there with a sobbing child squirming in his arms.

“We’re good. Let’s go.”

“People are staring.” Constance giggled. “Like we’re all being kidnapped. Do you think we should start screaming too, Marmie?” She grabbed her brother’s hand as he let out a laugh.

“Can we?”

“No,” I said sternly.

For heaven’s sake. Someone had to take control here. “No kidnapping. If anyone is getting kidnapped, it’s me. I have no idea who you guys are. Monsters? Aliens from another planet?”

“I feel like one.” Constance grinned. “But it feels good, you know?”

“Welcome home.” I smiled.

She did too. And I thought, just for a second, that this was actually…

God help me. This was…so incredibly normal. And those nerves? I had no idea what I’d been thinking, pushing a luggage cart with Constance and Marmaduke skipping hand in hand in front of me. The boy’s wet trousers. The stench of urine. And another howl from the small boy in Dylan’s arms.

“Welcome back, Daddy,” I said, watching Dylan smirk. “I mean it. Now the fun starts.”

“I know,” he said. But he smiled, and I reached out and ruffled his hair, let my hand stroke down his back.

He looked good. Happy. Strong. Like he’d suddenly grown an inch or two, his face cracking open in a smile as the boy kicked out in his arms and once again threw out an almighty wail.

“It’s all good.”

I meant it. Every little word.

26. Dylan

He had been absolutely right, making that call. Or perhaps the kids had already got their little claws into him and were playing him like a puppet. They were their mother’s children, and she’d taught them well.

Well…I was their father and had to take some blame.

“We’re not in any way suited for a restaurant visit,” he said, looking at me in therear-view mirror.

I agreed, one hundred per cent, as Phinneas once again screamed and tried to kick through the car seat he was strapped into.

He was exhausted, my little boy, and terrified, with no idea how to handle himself. I didn’t blame him. If I’d been him, I would have punched something too.

“We’re doing the drive-through. We’ll eat in the car,” he said firmly.

Another good call. The mere thought of getting Phinneas out of the car seat and back in it again had me breaking out in a precautionary sweat. No. Just no. Let’s get home.

“You’re okay, Dad,” my daughter said from the front seat. “What do you want?”

“I want a big meal.” Marmaduke.

“Happy meal. Nuggets or burger. A big meal is too much, Marmie.”