‘What did you draw, Tommy? Did you bring the picture?’

He shakes his head. ‘I told them my dada is in the sky. I drawed you, me and Herbie.’

That’s my boy, good lad, be yourself.

‘Herbie? That your doggie?’ Maureen asks.

The floodgate bursts: he jumps off the chair, pushes the table away from him, the book tumbling to the floor, its spine broken in two.

‘When can I see Hewbie? When, Yaya? Now?’ The old terms of endearment fall out of his mouth and I want to fall to my knees and kiss the perfect feet of him. Instead I stand tall, plant my feet firmly on the ground and say, ‘Soon, darling, I’m sure Maureen will organise that you come home very, very soon.’ I look at Maureen as I say this.

‘When, Maween, when?’ Tommy goes to her and tugs at her sleeve.

Maureen looks down at her notes, composes herself a moment, then speaks in a low, reasonable voice: ‘Soon, Tommy, soon, just like your mummy says.’

‘Now,’ he says quietly at first, shaking his head over and over. ‘Not soon, not soon, not soon. Now, I want to go see Hewbie now now now now.’ He’s getting all worked up, red in the face, hot and blotchy like me. Having found his voice, it won’t stop spilling: ‘Home now Yaya now Yaya now…’

Maureen seems quite calm in the face of the outburst. I want to join in his dance of outrage, but I need to maintain at least a semblance of equanimity, so I go to him, put my arms around his hot, shaking little body and feel him go limp. He nuzzles into me, sniffing and shuddering.

After some moments, Maureen speaks in a calm manner: ‘Ok, now, Tommy. We have to go. Say goodbye to Mummy now. You’ll see her next week.’

I disentangle from him, place him gently on the ground. He clings to my knees, pushing his head against my skirt, trying to disappear up under it.

‘I think it would be best if Tommy came home with me now. He’s been through enough.’ I know that this is impossible, and Maureen doesn’t have the authority, there are boxes to be ticked, protocol to be followed. From now on, Tommy won’t see me as the woman who rejected him; he’ll know he is wanted by his mother. Let him turn his anger on this other woman, on his foster carers, on the world out there.

‘You know that can’t happen today, Sonya,’ Maureen says in a tight voice.

‘But why why why why?’ On and on he continues, an eruption of incomprehension.

Once this ‘Why’ has planted its seed in him, its roots will grow tough and deep, and no amount of digging will unearth them. I should know.

I bend down to him and whisper in his ear: ‘Darling, it won’t be long now. We can count the days together.’ I turn to Maureen, follow the internal direction to minimise the drama. ‘Can you tell us roughly how long?’