There was a big underlined note down at the bottom.

NOTE TO PARENTS: OBVIOUSLY YOUR CHILD WILL NEED YOUR HELP, BUT PLEASE MAKE SURE THEY HAVE CONTRIBUTED TO THIS PROJECT! I WANT TO SEE THEIR WORK, NOT YOURS! Miss (Rebecca) Barnes

It shouldn’t take that long. She already had all the photos ready. She’d been feeling so smug about not leaving that until the last minute. Her mother had gotten prints done of photos from the family albums. There was even one of Ziggy’s great-great-grandfather on Jane’s dad’s side, taken in 1915 just a few short months before he died on the battlefield in France. All Jane had to do was get Ziggy to draw the tree and write out at least some of the names.

Except it was already past his bedtime. She’d let him stay far too long in the bath. He was ready for story and bed. He’d be moaning and yawning and sliding off his chair, and she’d have to beg and bribe and cajole, and the whole process would be excruciating.

This was silly. She should just put him to bed. It was ridiculous to make a five-year-old stay up late to do a school project.

Maybe she could just give him the day off tomorrow? A sickie? But he loved Fridays. FAB Fridays. That’s what Miss Barnes called them. Also, Jane really needed him to go to school tomorrow so she could work. She had three deadlines to meet.

Do it in the morning before school? Ha. Yeah, right. She could barely get him to put his shoes on in the morning. Both of them were useless in the mornings.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Who knew that kindergarten could be so stressful? Oh, this was funny! This was so funny. She just couldn’t seem to make herself laugh.

Her mobile phone was silent. She picked it up and looked at it. Nothing. Madeline normally answered texts immediately. She’d probably had enough of Jane lurching from crisis to crisis.

“Mummy! I need my spoon!” cried Ziggy.

Her phone rang. She snatched it up.

“Madeline?”

“No, love, it’s Pete.” It was Pete the Plumber. Jane’s heart sank. “Listen, love—”

“I know! I’m so sorry! I haven’t done the pay yet. I’ll do it tonight.”

How could she have forgotten? She always did the pay slips for Pete by lunchtime on a Thursday, so he could pay his “boys” on Friday.

“No worries,” said Pete. “See ya, love.”

He hung up. Not one for small talk.

“Mummy!”

“Ziggy!” Jane marched into the bathroom. “It’s time to let the water out! We’ve got to do your family tree project!”

Ziggy lay stretched out on his back, his hands nonchalantly crossed behind his head like a sunbather on a beach of bubbles. “You said we didn’t have to take it in tomorrow.”

“We do! I was right, you were wrong! I mean, you were right, I was wrong! We have to do it right now! Quick! Let’s get into your pajamas!”

She reached into the warm bathwater and wrenched out the plug, knowing as she did that she was making a mistake.

“No!” shouted Ziggy, enraged. He liked pulling the plug out himself. “I’ll do it!’

“I gave you enough chances,” said Jane in her sternest, firmest voice. “It’s time to get out. Don’t make a fuss.”

The water roared. Ziggy roared. “Mean Mummy! I do it! You let me do it! No, no.”

He threw himself forward to grab for the plug so he could put it back in and pull it back out again. Jane held the plug up high out of his grasp. “We don’t have time for that!”

Ziggy stood up in the bathwater, his skinny, slippery little body covered in bubbles and his face contorted in demented rage. He grabbed for the plug, slipped, and Jane had to grab his arm hard to stop him from falling and probably knocking himself out.

“You HURT me!” screamed Ziggy.

Ziggy’s near fall had made Jane’s heart lurch, and now she was furious with him.

“QUIT YELLING!” she yelled.

She grabbed a towel from the rail and wrapped it around him, lifting him straight out of the bath, kicking and screaming. She carried him into his bedroom and laid him with elaborate care on the bed because she was terrified she might throw him against the wall.

He screamed and thrashed back on the bed. Spittle frothed over his lips. “I HATE YOU!” he screamed.

The neighbors must be close to calling the police.

“Stop it,” she said in a reasonable, grown-up voice. “You are behaving like a baby.”

“I want a different Mummy!” shouted Ziggy. His foot rammed her stomach, nearly winding her.

Her self-control slipped from her grasp. “STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!” She screamed like a madwoman. It felt good, as if she deserved this.

Ziggy stopped instantly. He scuttled back against the headboard, looking up at her in terror. He curled up in a little naked ball, his face squashed into his pillow, sobbing piteously.

“Ziggy,” she said. She put her hand on his knobbly spine and he jerked away from her. She felt sick with guilt. ”I’m sorry for yelling like that,” she said. She draped the bath towel back over his naked body. I’m sorry for wanting to throw you against the wall.

He flipped over and launched himself at her, clinging to her like a koala, his arms around her neck, his legs around her waist, his wet, snotty face buried in her neck.

“It’s OK,” she said. “Everything is OK.” She retrieved the towel from the bed and wrapped it back around him. “Quick. Let’s get you into your pj’s before you get cold.”

“There’s someone buzzing,” said Ziggy.

“What?” said Jane.

Ziggy lifted his head from her shoulder, his face alert and inquisitive. “Hear it?”

Someone was buzzing the security door for their apartment.

Jane carried him out into the living room.

“Who is it?” said Ziggy. He was thrilled. There were still tears on his cheeks but his eyes were bright and clear. He’d moved on as if that whole terrible incident had never taken place.

“I don’t know,” said Jane. Was it someone complaining about the noise? The police? The child protection authorities coming to take him away?

She picked up the security phone. “Hello?”

“It’s me! Let me in! It’s chilly.”

“Madeline?” She buzzed her in, put Ziggy down and went to open the front door of the apartment.