The story of how Annie came about is as much a part of the cloth that our family is stitched from as the story of how our father was taken. It has spilled from each of our mouths a hundred times and yet, as I look at the question in Daniel’s eyes, I cannot speak it.

Annie has no such hesitation. She repeats the story as she’s heard it, from memory and a little too fast. ‘Mammy was walking in the woods one night collecting sticks for the fire and she heard a sound like a bird singing but she knew it couldn’t be that because it was night so she went to the sound and she wasn’t scared because it was the sweetest sound she’d ever heared and then she saw a babby and it was me. And I was lying all on the ground with the ferns under me like a mat and moss covering me like a soft green blanket and the roots of the biggest ash around me like the arms of a mammy.’

The telling of Annie’s story here, away from the cocoon of our house, our family who accept it, awakens something in me. A memory, pushing at the wall of my thoughts. I look to see how Daniel is responding, but he crouches in front of Annie, face turned to hers, all solemn attention.

We have reached her favourite part and she tells it exactly as I know she will, as I’ve seen her do many times. She claps her hands over her mouth and laughter shoots through her fingers. ‘And I was completely bare, with not even a tiniest single piece of cloth on me.’

Daniel responds as he knows he’s expected to, with a grin and a widening of the eyes at this naughtiest part of her tale.

‘So Mammy asked the ash if she could have me and the roots that holded me slithered right away so she knew she was allowed to and when she picked me up there was earth all in my mouth and ears from where I’d growed up from the ground like a tree does.’

The story is done. Annie beams and throws her hands down as though she has crafted and bestowed a great gift.

‘What a special beginning you had,’ Daniel says, his voice soft.

Annie’s expression is glum. ‘I know but it would’ve been better if I’d been growed a boy.’

I’m fighting thoughts I do not want, memories better forgotten, and I cannot respond. Daniel laughs. ‘I think you were grown perfect just as you are.’

‘That’s what Sarah says.’

‘Annie, we’ve to go,’ I say.