But Chloe tried to care for Flora, I reasoned. There must be love, I believed, there must be. Then the social worker showed me one of the medical reports in Flora’s file. It said that her muscle development had been delayed from lying supine too long. It gave me a chill when I read those words. That report dated from when Flora was eighteen months old. More than two years before Chloe had disappeared with her. It was written during the summer when I took Flora for walks along the river, and for picnics in Regent’s Park and held her up to look at Turner’s skies. I had not noticed that anything was seriously amiss. I did not know that ‘multiple agencies had expressed concerns’ or that ‘there was a high risk of ongoing neglect and/or harm to the child if intervention is not undertaken’. Who were all these agencies, with their concerns? Chloe told me on several occasions she had taken Flora for her check-ups, that she was meeting all her milestones. When I asked her once if she thought she should talk to the doctor about how small Flora was, she brushed off my concerns, saying that the nurse had told her that she was just small, she would catch up. And of course Leo had noticed this too, and we had never followed it up. It horrifies me now, all those times I handed Flora back to Chloe, not quite knowing what kind of life she was returning to, how desperate things were for Chloe.

‘If intervention is not undertaken.’ Was this what had driven Chloe away from London? Several of the later records in the file mentioned drug use. Also: ‘Attachment issues still evident’. ‘Mum not keen to participate in Circle of Security parenting programme’. ‘Difficulty rousing Chloe at last home visit, baby not present, apparently with a friend’. ‘No one home at most recent scheduled visit’.

Who had written all these notes? Who had tried to rouse Chloe? The handwriting changed throughout the records; many people had watched Chloe and Flora. Many people had written these notes, which felt like an impersonal sort of shorthand for the despair of the lives they were describing.

I felt like a fool. I had been so naïvely unaware of what was going on. Why had Chloe never asked me for help; why had she felt she couldn’t confide in me? But of course I knew why. She and I lived in different worlds. There were oceans of experience between us. She would have assumed that I would be horrified, that I would judge her. And she was probably right.