‘We’re going to have our very own fireworks display!’

‘Crackle, sizzle, whoosh, Yaya!’ He skips away down the aisle, lit from within.

‘Do you have any Fireman Sam suits?’ I whisper to the shop assistant, who backs away, shaking his head, giving me that look.

We arrive at the hospital half an hour later, find a parking spot easily in the multi-storey car park, no sense of panic, when usually I’d have broken out in hives by now. I remember the ticket, put it in my pocket, pat it, repeat ‘Ticket, ticket’ over and over as we walk towards the entrance. Green germ-killer hand gel for Tommy and me. I find the shop, where I buy grapes for my father because I can’t think of anything else, and because it’s what you’re meant to do. I make sure that Tommy eats a cheese sandwich, force myself to eat a banana. Need to maintain my equilibrium. Breathe deeply, ground. Announce myself at reception and am told St Michael’s wing, room 8.

The private wing is bright and clean, the smell of disinfectant smacking the back of my throat, bringing water to my eyes. I locate the room, stand outside a moment, put a hand on my heart, close my eyes and ask for guidance. Something bigger than me, wiser, some force for good, conjure Sister Anne, call on the Divine Mother, hear the soft rumbles of the rosary, feel the stillness of being submerged, being held, go deeper, inside, an inward leaning, listening.

‘Ok, little man?’ I open my eyes and look at Tommy, who’s watching me with that familiar anxious expression. I tuck a tendril of his hair behind his ear, push the door open.

Lara is sitting by the bed reading. She looks up, puts her finger to her lips, ‘Shh, he’s sleeping,’ and gets up as if to herd us out of the room. I stand steady, Tommy’s hand in mine. Walk over to the bed, lift Tommy on to it, place the grapes on the bedside table.

Lara says, ‘I thought I told David we need our space.’

‘I think you’ve taken up enough space in his life.’

I can feel my fury building but manage to contain it, just.

‘What were you doing talking to David about me, anyway?’

‘Your father and I feel he’s a good influence.’

No point in even trying to explain. Think of all the times I tried and failed to make this woman see my side of things, how I’d just get more worked up and lose my temper and she’d win.

I lean into him and whisper, ‘Dad.’

He opens one eye, which alights straight away on Tommy. ‘Well, if it isn’t the little birthday boy.’

Did he really just say that?

‘Please, Sonya, we need to keep him quiet, no shocks.’

I look directly at Lara, this woman who barrelled into our lives at a time when my father was still grieving, when I was grieving. For the first time I wonder what happened to her that she felt so desperately threatened by a child.