Suitcase Little Master took ages to grow. He complained to me every week about being small, so I used to measure him against the wall and draw a pencil line across, marking it with the date. We could then both see that nature was taking its course and he was, slowly but surely, getting taller.

Over one summer, Suitcase Little Master left for a rugby match in the morning, and I swear that by the evening, when he came back with a broken thumb, he had turned into Troubled Teenage Stepson.

By then, my Suitcase Children no longer came laden with many plastic bags and little suitcases (hence the nickname) containing all they needed for the weekend (or the week) they were to spend with us. They had a permanent base at home, school uniforms which I washed and ironed and hang like stiff white soldiers in their wardrobes, and various toiletries clattering the bathroom I shared with them.

There was a new baby cooing in the cot. And I had touched the bottom of the 'Well Of Despair'.

One night, Troubled Teenage Stepson came back from another rugby match caked in mud - as usual. Less than usual, he did not bother to take his kit off and have a shower, but let himself plonk onto the sofa. Dried mud, little stones and perhaps the odd bit of coagulated blood from the war wounds he had suffered during the match flung everywhere.

I had already started my descent into the 'Cleanliness is Godliness' slippery slope. A new baby, frankly, was a boring as hell. He only ate, slept, filled his nappy and occasionally cried. I had been told by my work colleagues that they were not expecting me back for another six months; even then, if I couldn't guarantee my usual seven-day-a-week performance, I knew that I would not have been able to go back to what I did before I dared have a baby.

Looking around for something to do to fill the void, outside and inside, I had decided that housework was worth investing time and effort in. I had always been house-proud, but by now I could have run a string of commercials for cleaning appliances and liquids, featuring myself and the immaculate Victorian whitewashed house we all lived in.

All that was missing was a pinny over my maternity clothes (yes, I was pregnant again) and a scarf over my hair.

I asked Troubled Teenage Stepson to remove himself from the sofa and go to have a shower.

Bad move.

'Why can't I just sit here, as I want to? Why do you have to tell me what to do?' he growled.

'Because you are covered in mud. Look, the sofa is all dirty. Go upstairs and have a shower, please', I replied.

'Do you know? I am sick and tired of you. What do you want me to do, take my kit off and sit naked here? Is that what you would like?' he was already shouting by then.

I was taken aback. I do not mind confrontations and am rather feisty, but there was something so unpleasant about his tone of voice that, for a moment, I was speechless with shock.

By the time Mr Husband finally decided to intervene, Suitcase Little Girl was sobbing in her room and the baby was beside himself; I had started shouting back, but stopped when Troubled Teenage Stepson told me that I was a fucking bitch who 'controlled' his father.

I did not mind the 'fucking bitch' bit, harsh as it was. In fact, I wished it were true.
However, I could not understand how he had come to the conclusion that I was the one who did any controlling whatsoever.

Mr Husband lifted me bodily to take me away; his son was still screaming abuse from upstairs when I got locked up in the kitchen; a little like a very mad kitten who must be protected from itself and is left on its own to calm down. Only, I was not doing much scratching.

Mr Husband disappeared upstairs in Troubled Teenage Son's room. A good half-an-hour later, when I ventured out of the kitchen, I found them together. Mr Husband was holding his son's hand, patting it reassuringly and whispering soothing words, asking whether he was all right.

I so much wanted to start shouting again, remembering and reeling off all the events in the past few years when I had been the one to make sure the Suitcase Children were 'all right'.

I heard a crack. I am not sure whether it was my stepping onto a shard of the vase I had broken earlier, in my fury, or my heart. Maybe it was both.

I gathered a few clothes and baby. I left the house for a week.

It nearly cost our marriage; it certainly cost quite a bit more than that.

I know that Troubled Teenage Stepson regrets those events, and has done so for a long time. Things were never the same between us, after that night. Nevertheless, I have let go of the resentment for him; I am not sure I ever did the same about his father.