AND so, Wolverine has left home. A dignified exit it wasn't; prior to departure she somehow managed to offend or enrage everyone.
Fifteen is irate over the disappearance of his best gear-bag, the big one with his name and club stencilled on the side.
Wolverine took it while he was at training; she later brazenly texted to say she'd "borrowed" it to haul stuff to her new home.
The Smallies, it emerged, were promised immediate occupancy of her bedroom if they'd loan her €20.
After she'd departed with their dosh it was discovered that she'd made the same promise to Fifteen – though in his case the deposit was €40.
"Neither a borrower nor a lender be," you remind them all.
But they are inconsolable.
Their money is gone for good, and Wolverine's room, on your orders, remains vacant.
Your husband said nothing on discovering the loss of his iPod – Wolverine left a brief note explaining that she was merely "borrowing it" until she'd "earned enough" to buy her own from the part-time job she still has to find.
But you said a lot – mostly unrepeatable – when you found the mess she'd left for you.
It took six black plastic rubbish bags and three hours of back-breaking labour to clear Wolverine's lair of the complex layers of filth she left behind – everything from fly-blown bags of decaying fast food to dirty hair-brushes, half-finished cans of Coke, empty make-up containers, torn magazines and heaps and heaps of soiled clothing.
She left her en suite in an unspeakable condition and the laundry bin bursting with dirty underwear she didn't need to bring with her.
Seething, you find another garbage bag and a spot in the bin for that lot too.
As you haul the reeking bags out of her bedroom you find a scribbled note promising that she'll be back "at some stage" to "clean things up".
Needless to say, Wolverine's parting shot, as she hauled her bags to the village bus stop – that you'd all be sorry because she'd never return – has so far failed to prompt immense outpourings of grief.
A few days later, an old friend rings.
She's read about Empty Nest Syndrome, she says; she's concerned about the black cloud of loss in which, according to the article, you may have been subsumed by the departure of your first-born.
"Do you miss her terribly?," she asks kindly.
"Are you finding it hard to let go?"
"I just take it day by day," you tell her sadly, suppressing the screeches of hysterical laughter that threaten to explode from the back of your throat.