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By the time I was washed and dressed for work, I found London upstairs in the kitchen with Kelly and Michael. Michael was about to turn two and was in his everything tastes rubbish phase. We were having a hard time getting him to eat the stuff that was good for him. Most of it ended up on the floor or across the room. This was especially frustrating for my chef wife who spent way too much time stressing out over experimenting with different recipes our fussy son might like. I tried to tell her it was just a phase, but London was not a relaxed parent.

Her own parents’ neglect made her determined to give Michael and Kelly all her time, all her focus, to the point of wearing herself out. We were working through it and after a long talk a few weeks ago, she seemed to be trying to stop micromanaging every second of our children’s lives.

“Dada!” Michael cried, spitting out porridge as he flailed his arms for me.

We’d named our son after Detective Sergeant Michael Davis who had literally taken a bullet for me.

“Porridge?” I asked London, surprised as hell that it was the one thing she’d gotten him to eat. “Morning, m’eudail.” I kissed my son on the forehead, and he slapped a hand on my cheek, smooshing porridge into my beard. “Thanks for that.”

He beamed. “Okay!”

Kelly snorted behind me at the island. I shot her an amused look as I tried to wipe the porridge out of my facial hair. “Morning to you too, m’eudail.”

My daughter chuckled. “Good luck getting that out.”

“Let’s just be grateful he’s eating the porridge.” London encouraged our son to keep eating the mushy oats with his spoon. He stuck his fingers into the bowl instead and then whapped them into his mouth.

“I think it’s time you taught him how to use utensils,” Kelly offered dryly.

Michael replied with a “Nah!”

His big sister laughed and then hopped off the stool. She was in her high school uniform, including a prefect’s blazer. At sixteen years old, five foot eight, and wearing a maturity that had been innate since birth, my daughter came across older than her years.

Which worried me.

London reminded me we lived on an island where all the boys who might fancy my daughter knew who I was and would never do anything to hurt her for fear of their lives.

That satisfied me.

But it didn’t stop me from worrying about her.

“I need to go in early. Prefect duties.”

“Before you go … how would you feel about your mum and me going to Scaris for a weekend alone?”

“Fine.” Kelly shrugged, glancing between us. “You need some alone time. Especially Mum.”

London frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means you need to land that helicopter,” Kelly offered with a gentle smile as if to soften the blow.

Unfortunately, London didn’t get her meaning, even though I did. “Land what helicopter?”

“The one that’s taken you over. Whoosh whoosh whoosh.” Kelly spun her finger. At London’s continued confusion, Kelly rolled her eyes. “You’re helicopter parenting. Hovering extraordinaire. Queen of the helicopter parents.”

“Kelly,” I murmured in warning.

“I’m just trying to help. Love you both.” She blew us a kiss and then hurried from the kitchen.

I was almost afraid to look at London.

“Did you talk to her about what we talked about?”

At my wife’s hurt tone, I rounded the island to her. “Of course not.”

She glanced at Michael who had more porridge over him than in him. “So … that’s how bad it is? Everyone thinks I’m a helicopter parent.”

“Hey.” I wrapped my arm around her waist, drawing her stiff body against me. “It’s better that than not giving a sh—crap.”