Once Sophie and Bella have been collected, Nic and Mel watch TV while Dad and I walk a few laps of the garden. Dad holds me tight, pointing out all the birds and the different plants in his veggie patch.

‘There’s the spinach, and that’s eggplant,’ he says, ‘and that … Would you take a look at that? The grasshoppers have got into the lettuce.’

We wave to our neighbour Henry and watch a bug-eyed grasshopper flip onto the fence. Then Dad picks some parsley to take inside to Mum.

‘Here we are,’ he announces, flourishing the herbs like a bunch of roses. Mum nods and listens quietly while Dad tells her about the grasshoppers, but she seems a million miles away, like the garden is the last thing on her mind.

‘It’ll be okay, love,’ Dad says, giving Mum’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Bella will understand. What’s a few pulled hairs between friends?’

Mum sighs. ‘I know. But you know, with Nicole, and Ava, sometimes it’s just too much.’

My mouth goes dry. And Ava? Mum never complains about me.

‘It’s so hard, isn’t it?’ Mum says, rubbing her eye. ‘We never know what she wants. Is she thirsty? Is she hot? Does she want to stay up and watch Law & Order? I mean, it’s impossible. We’re always guessing.’

Dad laughs. He has a deep chest and wide shoulders, so when he laughs, it’s a big belly laugh. ‘Well, probably not Law & Order,’ he says. ‘Ava’s a bit young for that.’

‘Yeah, I know, but you get what I mean? I feel guilty all the time. Guilty for not knowing what she wants. Guilty for not knowing what to do.’

‘We’re doing our best, Deb.’

Mum’s silent for a moment. ‘I feel guilty if I check my phone while she eats breakfast. Guilty if I need to ask for help. Guilty, guilty, guilty!’ Mum’s voice waivers, like she’s only just keeping it together.

Dad quickly grabs the box of tissues, just in case.

‘It’s like we have no life. I mean, we all want the same things, don’t we? The perfect marriage, the perfect job. Four bedrooms, a pool and a dog.’ Mum sighs and dabs a tissue to her eyes. ‘And what have we got?’

Well, you’ve got me and Nic, for a start. And we could always get a dog.

‘I feel like I’m trapped. I just want to burst free and run and run and run until my lungs explode. And then run some more.’

‘Hey,’ Dad soothes. ‘Remember that poem? What’s it called? “Welcome to Iceland” or something?’ He reaches an arm around Mum’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t it say planning for a baby is like planning a trip to Italy? You expect great food, great weather, great sights.’

Mum doesn’t smile back.

‘But when your baby is born with a disability,’ continues Dad, ‘it’s like you’re not going to Italy after all.’

Mum scratches her forehead. ‘And instead of Italy, you’re going to Holland,’ she says, frowning. ‘You feel angry and upset. You wanted sun and pasta and wine. Not rain and clogs.’

Dad nods. ‘But then you realise Holland has other things,’ he says, ‘like tulips and windmills and famous paintings, and, in fact, Holland is just as lovely as Italy. Just different.’

Mum sits very still, staring at the table. When she looks up, her eyes and nose are blotchy. ‘All I’m saying is, Holland’s no fun sometimes, you know?’ she whispers. ‘Sometimes … I just … well, Italy would’ve been nice, that’s all.’ She gets a cloth from the kitchen sink and starts wiping my hands and face.

‘You know what you need?’ Dad says. ‘A holiday. Not a Holland holiday – a real holiday. Just you and me, no kids.’ He sneaks a glance at me. It’s only a quick glance, but I see it, and he quickly looks away.

Mum sighs again. She and Dad both know there’ll be no holiday. For one – Mum and Dad are both flat out with their jobs, and two – who’d look after me?

‘Nobody’s perfect, Deb,’ says Dad. ‘It’s okay to feel this way. It’s really okay.’

But it’s not okay. Mum’s breathing hard, like she’s trying to control a volcano inside her. A volcano that’s hotter and more powerful than she expected.

‘How about a night out?’ Dad says. ‘Dinner? A movie? It’s been ages since we went on a date. We could get Nic to babysit?’

‘Nic?’ Mum laughs. ‘No, I don’t think so. Nic and Ava … no. Look, I’m fine, I’m really fine. I don’t need a night out. It’s all good.’

But Dad’s not convinced. ‘It’s been ages since we asked for help. Do you want me to make some calls again?’

The last time we tried calling Disability Services, Mum cried for nearly a week. The lady on the other end asked such stupid questions that Mum wished she’d never rung. When Mum asked if there was any chance we could get help and some carers, she was advised that there were people way worse off than us. ‘What do you want us to do about it?’ the lady had barked. ‘The government’s not made of money.’

‘We have to do something,’ insists Dad. ‘One day, you never know, we might really need some help. Leave it to me. I’ll do some homework and look into what else is out there.’

Later, while Mum pops over to visit Henry, Dad helps me down to the TV room, where Mel and Nic are still in their pyjamas, hunched over their phones, eating leftover pizza.

‘Hey, Mr Mills,’ says Mel. ‘Hey, Ava.’

‘Hi, girls. All good in here? Sorry about Bella.’

Mel nods but Nic doesn’t look up from her phone. Her hair is wound up in a frizzy bun, so I’m thinking Mel must have left her straightener at home.

‘I’m just ducking down to do some washing,’ says Dad. ‘Can Ava watch TV with you for a bit?’

Nic groans and mutters, ‘Does she have to?’ but Dad sits me down anyway and promises to be quick.

Mel moves over slightly and shows Nic a picture on her phone. ‘Cute, hey,’ she says, then lowers her voice. ‘So, how about it?’ she says. ‘Please? We’ve got a pretty good chance.’

Nic holds her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh,’ she whispers. ‘If Mum finds out …’ She glances at me to see if I’m listening.

Mel laughs.

‘What?’

Now it’s Mel’s turn to look at me. ‘Seriously? It’s not like she’ll tell anyone.’

You never know; miracles happen.

All the same, Nic talks in a whisper and I have to listen hard to hear what she says. It sounds as if they’ve been invited to compete at interschools, despite my milkshake ruining their act.

‘So?’ asks Mel.

Nic stretches. Mum says she’s grown legs up to her ears, and today, in her shorty sausage-dog pyjamas, I’d say Mum is just about right.

‘We’re good, Nic. We could win,’ tempts Mel. ‘Pleeeaase?’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Nic crosses her arms and squeezes her shoulders in tight. ‘I just don’t want Mum and Dad to bring …’ Her eyes flit towards me, and her whispered voice gets even softer. ‘I can’t handle, you know, that happening again.’

Mel squeals and hugs her. ‘So it’s a yes? Thanks, Nic! You’re the best!’