Thursday, ten past six

It's ten past six on a Thursday evening, some weeks on. Tea is ten minutes off. The tablet went off at a quarter to six because the timer said so, and there was grumbling about the timer, which is a thing that can't be argued with and doesn't get cross. At half past five you went into the front room, crouched down by your eight-year-old, waited for them to look up, and said, "I need you to lay the table now, please, tea's at six." You stood there. After about four seconds they got up. You said, "Thanks, that was quick," and went back to the pasta, which you'd turned off.

The table's laid. Nobody has shouted. Your five-year-old is drawing at it, which is a thing they can do because the cutlery's already there.

It wasn't always like this. The first week your eight-year-old tested it hard. The table didn't get laid, twice, and the tablet went on the fridge, twice, without a speech, and there was a tantrum about the fridge that you rode out from the kitchen. On the Wednesday you shouted, about shoes, from the hall, and at bedtime you went in and said the three sentences and nothing else, and your child looked at you oddly and said, "OK," and you didn't ask for anything back. The second week was better. The third week they laid the table on the first ask four nights out of five, and on the fifth you went to them and said it once, and waited, and they did it.

You've shouted since. A morning when the bag hadn't been packed the night before because you'd forgotten, and there was a shout about a coat on the doorstep at twenty past eight. You repaired it in the car. Your partner has started going to the child too, after a conversation about the ladder that went better than you expected, and the house now has one arrangement in it rather than two.

The five-year-old, last Sunday, told their brother to give the crayon back "now, please" in a low voice, and waited, and got the crayon. You noticed.

At nine you stand in the doorway and look at them asleep. There's no regret in it tonight. There's just the tiredness, which is ordinary, and the love, which was always there and is now not paired with anything.

If you've read this far and changed nothing yet, try one thing. The next time you're about to call an instruction from another room, don't. Walk to your child, get down to their level, wait for their eyes, and say it once. Then wait, and see what happens.