The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square. Michele Gorman

or whatever he wants to. This is bliss.

      Until my phone starts ringing. ‘Hi, Philippa.’ My mother-in-law.

      ‘Hellair, darling!’ she says in her booming posh voice that makes everyone think she’s really stuck up when actually she’s just the opposite. ‘I just had the most amahzing idea and I knew you’d be up already with the children.’

      ‘Actually–’

      ‘Picture this, darling: live birds for your café! You could have gorgeous little cages hanging everywhere. Right, I’ve already found an exotic bird handler who can get us anything we want.’

      I picture the plants in our window boxes that I kill every few months. Those birds wouldn’t stand a chance. ‘That’s an interesting idea, Philippa, but I’m not sure we should be using live birds as decorations.’

      ‘Of course, darling, whatever you say. It’s just an idea. I’ll keep thinking, yah? Must dash. My masseuse is due any minute.’

      These calls are my fault, really. I let her have her way with a baby shower for the twins and the live storks went to her head.

      So much for a lie-in.

      ‘Morning,’ I call to my family on my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. A cup of tea that I might be able to finish!

      If I can find the kettle, that is. It looks like a bomb’s gone off in here. There are eggshells and banana peels in the sink. Oats cover the worktop and the floor, every cabinet door is open and two of the pans are burnt on the hob. The remains of Daniel’s bloomer lies mutilated on the cutting board and as I go to the fridge for milk, my left sock becomes soaked with… I hope that’s orange juice.

      ‘Look, Mummy’s up!’ Daniel sings.

      ‘Have we been under attack?’ The twins are smeary with breakfast as usual.

      ‘Hmm?’ He aims a porridge-filled soup spoon at Oscar’s mouth and mashes it into his cheek when he turns away. ‘Sorry, darling.’

      ‘The kitchen? How many people have you been trying to feed?’

      ‘Right, yah, sorry, it’s a mess, I know. I wasn’t sure what they’d eat, so I tried to do a bit of everything.’

      ‘I don’t think he can get that ladle into his mouth.’ I dig out the colourful spoons from the cutlery drawer, but Grace is happier with her hands plunged into her porridge bowl. ‘Suit yourself,’ I tell her. She burbles at me.

      ‘Actually, now that you’re up,’ says Daniel with a mad look in his eye, ‘could you take over for a minute? I need to, erm, badly…’

      ‘Ah, you’ve discovered that your bowels are not your own when you’ve got to look after children. Go ahead, I’ll finish them up.’

      I get a fleeting kiss before he disappears into the loo. ‘Daddy needs a poo,’ I tell our children.

      But they’re not interested in anything I’ve got to say. Oscar twists around to see where Daniel’s gone, and Grace starts to whimper. ‘What’s the matter, babies? I’m here. It’s okay.’ But the more I cuddle them the more they squirm, till Daniel emerges from the bog. They crow at him with excitement.

      ‘Aw, they’re so sweet,’ he says, kissing the twins’ downy heads as they clamour for his attention. ‘We’ve rahly had so much fun together.’

      Sure, he’s the main attraction at the circus for one night and suddenly I’m demoted to the one in the dungarees following behind the elephants with a shovel.

      I’m feeling completely sorry for myself by the time I drop off the twins at Mum and Dad’s house. It’s the way they escape their pushchair to launch themselves on Dad, like they can’t get away from me fast enough.

      Mum notices, so I have to blame my grump on PMT. Then she points out that of course the twins are excited to climb into a wheelchair. It’s the chair, not the person. Which just makes Dad feel bad too, so now we’re both feeling like we don’t measure up to the expectations of toddlers.

      I guess Dad clocks my mood too, because just as I’m leaving he decides that he needs more Weetabix from the shop. ‘Can you hang on to the children, love?’ he asks Mum. ‘I’ll go up with Emma.’

      Neither of us says anything as we leave the house.

      ‘Give me a push, will you, love? My arms aren’t awake yet.’

      Now I know he wants to talk. He wouldn’t let me push him otherwise.

      We round the corner out of the estate on to the main road. It’s noisy with morning traffic and people rushing to work.

      ‘What time do you need to be at the café?’ Dad asks. ‘Let’s go along the canal for a bit. The sun feels nice.’

      I stare at the back of his head. Dad’s not usually a nature-lover. And he’s not a man for spontaneous chit-chat. Which means he has something important to say.

      I just hope he’s not sick again. It’s been almost two years since his last MS relapse. I’ve been daring to think that the medicine is keeping it under control. I hope that hasn’t tempted fate.

      ‘Everything okay, Dad?’ I finally ask when we’ve gone down the ramp to the canal towpath. Colourful narrowboats are moored along the path and the tang of woodsmoke fills the air. It’s a pleasant smell, though. Dad’s right, this is nicer than swallowing bus fumes on the main road. A lot quieter too.

      ‘I’ll ask you the same thing,’ he says, twisting in his chair as I push him along. ‘What’s up, Emma? You can talk to me as much as your mum, you know.’

      I let out the breath that I’ve been holding. It’s not a relapse. ‘I know.’ He’s got enough to worry about without having to take on my problems too. Though I can’t tell him that. He hates being treated any differently because of his health. ‘I’m finding it harder than I thought with the children. It’s better with you and Mum and Auntie Rose helping, but it’s still a lot to deal with.’

      ‘You know it’s okay to ask for more help,’ he says gently.

      ‘Thanks, Dad, but you’re already doing so much. It’ll settle down once the café is open and we get into a routine.’

      He reaches over his shoulder to grasp my hand on the wheelchair handle. ‘Stop for a sec. I don’t mean from us, love. I mean from Daniel. Is that the trouble?’

      How does he know that? I’m sure Mum hasn’t said anything. She doesn’t like to burden him any more than I do. ‘It’s not been easy,’ I finally say.

      ‘Do you want me to ’ave a word with him?’

      ‘Oh god, no!’

      ‘Then maybe you should do it.’

      ‘I know, Dad.’ It’s on my to-do list. ‘I never seem to say the right thing, though.’

      He laughs. ‘That’s a family trait you got from me. You’d better ask your mum for advice there.’

      ‘You usually do okay.’

      ‘Only because your mum’s trained me. I’d be hopeless without her.’ He starts pushing his wheelchair along the path. I guess his arms have woken up. ‘We’d better go to the shop or your mum will start wondering what’s happened to me.’

      There’s a girl waiting in front of the pub when I get there to open up. She’s hunched into her black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, her hands tucked deeply into the pockets.

      ‘Louise?’ I ask, even though I know it must be her. There’ve been mostly boys on my interview list. The only other two girls came yesterday. One popped her gum at me for five minutes straight and the other one grumbled about how much she disliked espresso machines. Not espresso itself, just the machines. Something about the steam being bad for her nail extensions.

      Louise