By the time the front door popped open, and Mum shouted, “I’m home!”, Anton was sitting on the sofa, buried in the big fleece throw that served as the family comfort blanket, with baby Rose in his lap and watching The Simpsons. Lily, who wasn’t allowed to watch it after she’d called Anton’s dad an ass one weekend, was loudly helping Aunt Kerry cook spaghetti in the kitchen.
“Hello, darling,” Mum said, leaning over the sofa to hug him from behind. “Hello to you, too, petal!” she added brightly when Rose cooed.
“Did it go well?”
“I think so,” she said, coming around to drop into the seat next to Anton and kick off her heels. “Not brilliantly, but not terribly either. I think I have a good chance. What’s this, eh?” She brushed a thumb under Anton’s eye. “You’re all bloodshot, darling.”
“Y
