I wait for a few seconds, my breath frozen in my chest, sure that Polly will appear in the doorway at any moment, shouting blue murder. Nothing happens. The light pings off again, and I am swamped with darkness, thick and velvety, surrounding me like a cloak. My heart rate returns to normal, and moving quickly, I tuck Laurel into the car, covering her little body with the blanket that I left there expressly for this purpose. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I take a huge, shaky breath, wiping my slick palms on my thighs, the thick denim of my jeans soaking up the dampness before I push the car into neutral and let it gently coast down the driveway onto the dirt track, until it is safe for me to start the engine. I don’t look in the rear-view mirror as I drive away. I don’t ever want to look back from this moment on.

Laurel sleeps all the way as I drive as close to the speed limit as I dare, along the A11 before picking up the M20 at Dartford. It’s still full dark as we head towards our destination, the night sky clear and sprinkled with thousands of tiny stars, barely visible in the light pollution from the street lamps. My eyes are feeling gritty and dry from tiredness, and I want to weep with relief as I see the first motorway sign for the Eurotunnel.

A short while before we reach our junction on the motorway, I spy a service station, dark and secluded with only a few lorries parked up for the night. It’s closed, the early hour meaning no one will be around just yet, so I park in a space at the far end of the car park, glancing around to make sure I am not spotted by some early bird trucker, before I lean into the back seat to check on Laurel. She is still fast asleep, her breath whistling slightly in and out, her hair ruffled and tangled. I tuck the blanket around her completely, so that should anyone peer into the back seat it looks as though I have a pile of old rugs on the seat, no child to be seen anywhere. I straighten up and check my watch. I have twenty minutes until check-in closes. Stepping back into the car, I inspect the back seat once more, and reassured that no one will see any sign of Laurel, I pull back onto the motorway.

My stomach gives a tiny lurch as I see the motorway sign I’ve been waiting for, and I indicate left, pulling into the slip road and following the signs. I’ve booked our journey online, so I don’t need to stop at a manned booth, and once my ticket is printed I head towards passport control. This is it. Make or break time.