“‘Once upon a time there was a beautiful maiden who was trapped in an enchanted castle. The castle was surrounded by a forest of thorns and guarded by a fearsome ­dragon—’”

A girl with long brown pigtails starts frantically waving both arms in the air, so I pause from my reading.

“Yes, Isla? Do you need the toilet?” the teacher, Mrs. Hollybush, asks the girl.

“What’s the dragon’s name?” Isla asks. More small hands shoot up.

“Are dragons nocturnal?” asks a boy wearing purple glasses.

“Is it home time?” comes the muffled cry of a girl who’s pulled her school jumper up over her face.

Mrs. Hollybush sighs. “We’ve talked about this, 1H, please just let Ethan’s mummy read the story. There’ll be time for questions at the end, okay?” She gives me an encouraging smile, then nods for me to continue.

Every Friday afternoon my son Ethan’s primary school invites a parent to come and read a book to their child’s class. Ethan has been asking me to sign up for months. It’s been a disruptive year, with Dan and I separating, so I’ve been trying to assuage my mum guilt in other small ways: pretending I enjoy board games, cooking waffles at weekends, and now ducking out of work early to read a fairy tale to thirty noisy ­six-​­year-­olds. As I sit perched on a tiny chair, looking out at the children sitting ­cross-legged on the carpet in front of me, my gaze falls on Ethan. He beams, thrilled to have me here. I return his smile, then turn back to the book.