But it was not a cold corporate battlefield either, which is what people sometimes assume when they hear this story, as though I had won a hostile takeover of my own family.

It was neither of those things.

It was, simply, a functioning, structured, genuinely happy home.

At half past six in the morning, the gentle hum of the dishwasher filled the corner of the room.

Julian stood at the counter in his suit trousers, holding a pair of baby bottles under the hot tap, expertly testing the temperature of the formula against the inside of his wrist before snapping the teats into place, a motion so practiced now that he did it without looking.

Over in the playpen, our twelve-month-old daughters, Maya and Clara, were pulling themselves up against the wooden rails and babbling merrily at the dog.