She is fast asleep but I’m far from it. It’s been ages since we last found the time to have sex, and I know that I’m just as much to blame because I’m never here. But tonight, I escaped from work early and, before I knew it, we’d done it twice in a couple of hours. I’m absolutely knackered. Post- shower, I’m sitting in the lounge in my boxer shorts while she remains out for the count in the bedroom. I look at the time – it’s past midnight.

I question if we’d still be together had she not fallen pregnant. I hate to say it, but no, probably not. It was an accident, albeit a happy one.

I scroll on my phone through the photo album of Sonny that Mia and I share. There are hundreds of photographs I’ve taken of him since he was born three months ago. From the very first one in his incubator to him behind me in his car seat yesterday morning, the novelty of being a dad to that little man still hasn’t worn off. For the first time I notice that of all the pictures I’ve taken, Mia features in only a handful. That can’t be right, can it? I check to see if she has created a separate photo folder of just the two of them together, but unless they are only stored on her phone, then no, there are definitely only four of mother and son.

I can’t keep ignoring that there’s something not right with her. Mum reckons it’s the head injury from her fall or postnatal depression, and she sent me the links to the NHS

websites that list the symptoms. Mia ticks more boxes than I’d like. Mum says I need to go to Mia’s doctor and get her on medication ASAP. ‘Make her more manageable,’ she says. Of course I want her to get better, but I didn’t marry her because I wanted someone I could manage. I married her because I loved her and I wanted someone independent so that we could both lead our own lives as well as share one. My best mate, Ranjit, tells me I’m playing with fire in wanting the best of both worlds, marriage and freedom, and I guess he’s right. But I can’t see myself stopping unless I get burned.

I look at my watch again. I’ll be pushing my luck if I stay here much longer, so I return to the bedroom and quietly slip on my jeans, T-shirt, overalls, socks and boots. I pause for a moment like I always do to check that I haven’t forgotten anything, and glance at my phone again for messages. Mia knows I’ve been subcontracted by a plumbing firm, taking on emergency call-outs at stupid hours. She doesn’t know I’m not on a call-out now. And she doesn’t know how much I lie to her or who I’m with now. I intend to keep it this way.

Fifteen minutes later and I’ve returned to the family home, tiptoeing into the Annexe. A light is shining from under Mia’s bedroom door and I wonder if I should go in, even if it’s only to say hello. But she’s probably surfing those bloody murdered-kid websites again. She doesn’t think I know of her obsession, but with our shared internet account, I can see on my phone what she looks at when I’m not around. I also know she’s downloaded at least half a dozen books for her Kindle about serial killers. To live the way I want to live means knowing everything about her life, even when she doesn’t have the first clue about mine.

I decide I’m too tired for her now. I’ll see her in the morning. I stretch out on the sofa and stare at the ceiling as I get my head together, straightening my stories, preparing

for tomorrow, planning for all eventualities. It takes a lot of forward thinking to be me.