My boy bursts through the door, breathless, cheeks stung pink from running in the crisp air, dark eyes wild. In the mornings he walks to school, slowly, but he always runs home. And I ask how his day was, as I always do, and he says, ‘Fine, fine,’ as he always does; the conversation closed. And I wonder, not for the first time, not for the hundredth time, how hard it must be to spend six hours in a place where you are misunderstood, underrated and miserable. Later, we will talk. Now, we cuddle.