Reaching for the remote, I switched on an old episode of Britain’s Got Talent.
‘Come on then kids,’ I said, scooting over on the bed so my two boys, Alfie, 12, and Brody, eight, could squeeze between me and my husband Sam, now 33.
On Monday 29 August last year, it felt like a Sunday.
We’d spent the last day of the bank holiday relaxing at home with my mum Debra, 57, popping round for tea.
Sat eating meat and potato pie, we made the most of the last little bit of the weekend.
‘Back to school tomorrow,’ I said, clearing the plates. ‘Early nights tonight.’
And after getting the bookbags and lunches ready, we all had a touch of the Sunday blues.
So, it was nice snuggling up in bed for a little bit before we went back to the grind.
Alfie was staying with Mum for a sleepover, so at half eight, after , he went a
