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Four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. I’ve spent the day keeping my toddler occupied so that my husband can concentrate on an important piece of work. The hours have passed with a swimming lesson, a crafting activity, a film, jumping in muddy puddles and visiting a friend.

I am exhausted, ready to drop. Two weekend evenings socialising, followed by two weekend mornings of 6am starts with an active two year old have left me drained. I survey the mess in my house and grit my teeth ready for the next flurry of activity; cooking tea while juggling demands from a fractious tot. I know that – once I’ve managed bathtime, bedtime, ironing, washing the dishes and sorting the laundry – I have at least three hours of writing work to do.

I blink, all at once overcome with the burden of Getting Stuff Done.

And then, as I wander into the living room, I am confronted by this sight:

Father and daughter readingFrog making the most of her daddy’s ten minute work break to climb on his tummy and read him a story.

These two people are my world, my wealth.

I am rich.