‘I know,’ I say weakly. ‘In terms of timing, I’m hoping we can do it during the school holidays, but my job is in the UK. How long do you think she’ll need to be in hospital?’

He purses his lips in thought. ‘I would say the absolute minimum would be eight days. I’d be more comfortable with two weeks. I realise this is an extremely costly procedure in its own right, but if you could secure flat beds for the flight home, that would help with her discomfort.’

I scoff internally, because what the hell is another few grand when I’m already forking out six figures for this? The costs keep getting higher and higher.

Dr Elliott continues, oblivious to my spiralling. ‘A timeline that tight would require us to complete as much of the preparation as possible remotely at GOSH. All final pre-op tests would be carried out on the day you arrive, with surgery scheduled for the next day. You’re looking at three to five days of observation, either in or outside of the ICU, depending on how Tabby’s body responds to her new valve, and then another few days of short-stay monitoring. How does that sound?’

I’m nodding, I realise, and it’s an attempt to persuade myself as much as this kind man that this is doable. That Tabs and I can handle it. ‘Yep. Mmm-hmm.’

‘I know it sounds like a tight timeline,’ he says. ‘She’s welcome to stay longer, depending on your budget and your demands back in London. Just remember this, Miss Winters. Tabby isn’t systemically ill. She’s missing one crucial piece of equipment. And when we’ve switched that out, the effect on her entire system will be nothing short of miraculous. Yes, there’s a recovery period, but, barring any complications, we’d expect to see an immediate improvement in your daughter’s cardiopulmonary function. That means higher sats and much improved exercise tolerance, for starters.’

He smiles at me, and I can feel the reassurance of it through my screen. ‘What that means in practice is that she’ll be doing cartwheels and dancing her little socks off before you know it.’

Tabby isn’t systemically ill.

Dr Elliott’s words stay with me for a long time after our call. He’s right, of course. It’s just that the crucial piece of equipment she’s missing is so fucking critical to her survival that it’s always been hard to think beyond that.

But now I begin to allow myself to do just that. After our call finishes, I collapse on the sofa, and I dream about a version of my little girl with rosy cheeks and boundless energy.

I see her turn cartwheel after cartwheel across the grassy area in our local park.