‘That is not true.’

Mark refilled his glass. ‘It is, and you know it.’

‘Is this what you’ve got out of talking to your mother? I should have guessed that she’d just make everything worse.’

‘Don’t talk about her like that. She’s just a realist. You might choose to see this whole thing through rose-tinted spectacles, but I’m not going to.’

‘You can’t just give up.’

‘I’m not giving up. There’s nothing to give up.’

‘Mark, if only you’d read that report, there was some advice for us, some ideas for things to try…’

‘Don’t nag me, OK? None of that’s going to cure her, is it? There isn’t a cure.’

‘Well, no. But there are still things we can do that might help.’

‘Really? Like what?’

My mind had gone blank. ‘Well, one of them was to play turn-taking games… like catch…’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve tried that. She can’t do it,’ he said. ‘So is this your thing now? The self-sacrificing special needs mum, bravely soldering on? Bit of a new look for you, playing the virtue card.’

‘If that’s you getting at me for having a crush on someone else about a decade ago, then you’re even more pathetic than I thought.’

‘Oh, I’m pathetic now, am I? Then why are you still married to me?’ He pointed in the direction of the living room, where Daisy had turned up the volume the keyboard to maximum volume. ‘If you’re being so honest now, why don’t you just admit it’s because of that? You’re the one who wanted her. It wasn’t my idea.’

‘That is unforgivable!’

‘Then don’t forgive me. I’m past caring.’

He scooped up his wine glass and strode off in the direction of the office, and I heard the slam of the door even over the blaring of Daisy’s toy.

The next day I steeled myself to call my mum. She was full of her own news, so the first part of the conversation was fine. She had broken up with the boyfriend who owned the houseboat and was sub-letting a tiny bedsit above a sex shop in Soho, and had just started a long-distance relationship with an Australian sheep farmer she’d met online. She was already making plans to fly out to meet him in the flesh.

Eventually I brought myself to tell her what Mary Greengage had said.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she exclaimed. ‘What is this mania with sticking labels on children? Look, are you worried about her?’

‘Well… yes.’

‘Well, try not to be, is my advice. I mean, is she happy? That’s all that really matters, isn’t it? Not whether she’s got the five times table down pat.’

Daisy hadn’t yet learned to count to ten and didn’t have much language beyond yes, no, a series of useful nouns and the ability to echo back what other people had said, but I decided not to point this out.

‘She isn’t always happy,’ I said. ‘Sometimes she gets really stressed out, and has these awful meltdowns where she’s just beside herself.’