Sprinkling cheese on top of the lasagne, my daughter Emma-Jane, 11, smiled.
‘Thank you, baby,’ I said, sliding the tray into the oven.
It was January this year and my kids, Kayla, 19, Raiden, 17, Saige, 15, Emma-Jane and Chevy-King, seven, had just had their first day back at school.
Thick as thieves, the kids would spend hours in the kitchen baking cakes or making dumplings for me and their dad, George, 41.
We’d split six years ago but remained close friends.
Today, Kayla and Emma-Jane were helping me with dinner.
While I was washing dishes around 5.20pm, Emma-Jane asked if she and Saige could go to the shops.
They’d saved their pocket money for a treat.
‘As long as you’re back in time for dinner,’ I nodded.
The corner…
