‘No, but you’ll be able to enjoy it a lot more when the doctors fix you up.’

She turns the book over and looks at the price.

‘It’s 'spensive, Mummy.’

I inhale sharply through my nose and get to my knees so I’m at eye level with her. It kills me that my eight-year-old girl worries about money, that she doesn’t run into a bookshop and demand things like other kids her age might but instead frets about how we’ll afford those things.

She’s seen me scrimp all these years.

She knows that the material kind of treats don’t come along much outside of Christmas and birthdays.

She’s accustomed to there being precious little money to go around in the Winters household.

I recall something Athena said when she insisted on funding Tabby’s opulent bedroom tent as her Father Christmas present last year and I tried to put my foot down. She told me, in her inimitably forceful and candid way, that this is about ramming home a very important message to a sick little girl—that sometimes, in a world full of shitty disappointments, sometimes, just sometimes, life not only delivers but blows your fucking mind. It’s always worth believing.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Tabs worry her way to this momentous and gruelling operation. If ever there was a time to channel her godmother and ram home the importance of an abundance mindset, it’s now.

‘It’s more expensive than the others, yes, because it’s a beautiful special edition,’ I tell her now, putting the book into her hands. ‘More love and care has gone into making this book, so it has a higher value. It’s special, just like you’re special, and this trip we’re going on is very, very special. So how about we treat ourselves, because a special trip deserves a special book. Hmm? What do you think?’

She nods slowly, her face still solemn. ‘Do you have enough money?’

‘Oh, sweetheart, of course I do. I have this great new job, remember? And it means that we can afford to get some nice treats for our trip. Special treats. And you can put this pretty book by your bed in the hospital, and hopefully it’ll help to comfort you. We’ll bring Bartholomew, too.’

Bartholomew is Tabby’s new Jellycat bear. Athena bought him for her as soon as we got our date for the operation. He’s soft and solemn and sports a very smart pair of red-and-white pyjamas. He’ll be our wingman for the trip.

‘Mummy,’ she says, and then pauses in that way that tells me she has something on her mind.

‘What is it, my love?’ I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, still on my knees.