The cats turn out to be murderers and must be imprisoned, a baby bird requires 24-hour care from the girls, and the youngest boy leaves home
One of the useful things about living in a household of twentysomethings is that my offspring can now be left to run the house in my absence. I no longer fear that they will throw all-night parties, or provoke irate texts from neighbours. I am even fairly confident that the garden will be watered and the cats fed. My children are responsible adults. So I go away for a week with a light heart, taking the dogs with me. My partner, Ed, is away too. The children wave us off in our separate directions, with cats in their arms and smiles on their faces.
The first hint that something is amiss is an email from Megan: “I hate cats. I hate Jake and Zac. I’m exhausted. Call the boys – tell them they have to help – or I’ll murder them.”
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