His solar system duvet cover is patterned with planets and I turn it back so he can slip into bed. The mattress dips as I kneel across him to switch on the star-shaped fairy lights which twist around his bedstead. Before I tuck him in, I pull off his shoes and socks. A lump rises in my throat at the sight of his feet, now almost as big as Aidan’s. Memories of tweaking his toes, this little piggy went to market, rise as though it were only yesterday when his only concern was the little piggy who didn’t get any roast beef.

Now he might die.

Covering my mouth with a curled fist, I turn my sob into a cough. I can’t think like that.

I won’t.

It’s a slow-progressing disease.

Not always.

Shut up, I tell the voice in my head.

‘Can I fetch you a drink? A snack?’ I ask once he’s settled.

‘No thanks, Mum.’ His face relaxes as though he’s safe once more in his own private space where Xbox games about war contrast with the Star Wars Lego models gathering dust on his shelves. Edward, his imaginatively named teddy bear, lies sprawled on top of his chest of drawers next to a pot of L’Oréal hair wax Connor gave him along with a half-empty bottle of Nivea aftershave. My boy is inching across the tightrope between boy and man. Will he ever reach the end of the wire and step off into his new life or will he fall? Without a liver transplant Kieron’s life expectancy since diagnosis is between nine and eighteen years. He has already had five of those years. The thought that without surgical intervention he might only have four more years left steals my breath. Kieron might not make the age that Connor is right now.

I blink away tears and offer him a bright smile. ‘Shepherd’s pie or roast chicken?’

‘A Sunday dinner on a Monday?’

‘Why not.’ I don’t know how many Sundays he has left. God, I must stop. He’s fine. Right now he is fine. Should be fine for years. ‘With extra stuffing and Yorkshire puddings.’

‘Thanks, Mum. Can you ask Connor to come and see me?’

‘Yes, as soon as he’s out of the shower.’

Connor’s room is a mass of balled-up socks, crumpled T-shirts, empty crisp packets and cans littering the floor around the overflowing bin. Scuff marks cover the dove-grey walls. We must decorate.