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Monday mornings were always a rush. I sighed, picking up a stray sock at the bottom of the stairs. It was probably my eldest’s, Arthur’s. He hadn’t seemed to grasp the concept of the washing machine yet. But then, few ten year olds do. I took it with me into the cluttered kitchen, and left it on the worktop next to some bills and my car keys. My husband, Sam, looked up briefly as I came in. I was glad to see that he had organised the younger children, who were now eating breakfast. Freya and Peter both looked grumpy and half asleep.
My skinny daughter, with her petulant expression and hunched shoulders, glared at her plate crossly.
‘Mum, I’ve eaten half my toast but I’m not hungry anymore,’ she whined.
I exchanged a frustrated look with Sam, who shrugged wearily.
‘Fine, leave your plate by the sink and go and clean your teeth.’ My voice came out slightly sharper than I had intended, but she leapt down from the table, o