Since being diagnosed with PSC – Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis, a chronic liver disease – five years previously he’s stopped growing at the rate of the other kids. Stopped living almost, although I’m overdramatizing again. If you asked him, Kieron would say he is happy and he is. He lives day-to-day like most kids do. Often he feels okay and thankfully he has very little pain. His side effects are manageable, mostly. But his bouts of infection and jaundice are terrifying.

It’s a relief when we pull up outside the nearest entrance to the paediatric unit. Aidan drops us off before he begins the game of chance where he’ll circle round the too-small area with the too-few spaces, eyes peeled for someone with keys in their hand, heading back to their vehicle.

There was a time I’d have waited, when we’d have stuck together.

Instead, we go ahead without him.

Hospitals have a smell. A taste that stings the back of the throat. So many people say they hate them but I suppose I’m more used to medical units than most. I’m comfortable amid the hustle and bustle. Inside this red-bricked building lives are changed. Lives are saved.

‘Here we are!’ I push through the swing doors and log our arrival on the touch-screen check-in system. We perch on hard orange plastic chairs in the cramped waiting room. It’s so hot in here, my skin is sticky.

My knee jiggles with nerves. Every few seconds I glance at the door, willing Aidan to arrive before we are called through.

‘I’ve got PSC,’ I hear Kieron saying to the little girl sat next to him, curly haired doll on her lap.

‘What does that mean?’ she asks.

‘My skin used to itch all the time but it doesn’t anymore,’ Kieron says simply, but it’s so much more than that.

PSC – three letters with mountainous implications. Possible cancer of the bile duct being the one that lurks frequently in my mind. There’s no known cause – that’s the frustrating part. It can be triggered after an infection, it can be genetically predisposed or it could be an autoimmune disorder. It could be caused by something else entirely. Nobody really knows.

It isn’t curable.

‘Kieron?’ The nurse that has come to fetch us addresses him directly. Kieron stands and follows her; I throw one last glance over my shoulder, before I step inside Mr Peters’ consultation room.

‘How are you today, young man?’ the doctor asks.

‘Fine.’ Kieron raises his hand and Mr Peters high-fives him.

‘He isn’t,’ I cut in, my tone sharper than I intended. ‘Fine, I mean. He’s lost weight. He barely has an appetite and he’s constantly exhausted. He was on the ward last week again—’