The paediatric consultant led the meeting. She ran through the summaries of the various reports and gave her conclusion: a diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder, just as Mary Greengage had suggested months before.

Despite the long wait, it felt weirdly like an anti-climax. Mark and I were given the opportunity to give our views. Mark cleared his throat, and said, ‘Do you have any idea what caused it?’

The consultant shook her head. ‘No. It’s very common to want to look for a reason, to try to find someone or something to blame. But this is not anyone’s fault.’

I looked at Mark, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

The consultant turned to me. ‘Mrs Walsh? Any questions?’

I shook my head and said it was what I had been expecting.

The consultant said she’d ring us in a couple of weeks to see how we were getting on and would see us again in her clinic for a check-up in a year’s time. Daisy had been referred for speech and language therapy, and someone would be in touch about that. And we could go on the waiting list for a parenting course, but it might be a while before we were offered a place.

Then she passed us both a handful of leaflets and a list of support groups. Mark murmured a polite thank you and put the information away in his briefcase, along with his copies of the reports about Daisy. I could tell by the expression on his face that he was never going to look at any of it.

I stuffed all my paperwork into the bag I’d brought with Daisy’s emergency snacks, change of clothes and favourite toy of the moment, a bear with a button on its tummy that lit up and played soothing lullabies when you pressed it. I supposed I’d have to file everything. Get organised. As if I was at work and Daisy was a project, with targets and milestones and measurable progress, and an archive of important records.

And that was it. The meeting was over. We had our diagnosis, and we were free to take Daisy home.

It was a bit like the moment when she’d been discharged from hospital as a newborn: now it was up to us. The monumental responsibility of figuring out what to do for the best, of looking after her, caring for her, loving her, stretched ahead for years and years, and was ours and ours alone.

It was a beautiful sunny day. Blue skies, big white clouds. The world didn’t even look that different. Just a little bit, in a way it was hard to put your finger on.

Mark drove, and we didn’t talk. Daisy slept in the back. By the time we made it to Kettlebridge the school run traffic had died down and the rush hour hadn’t yet got going. It was quiet, and our road, which was bordered by a small patch of woodland on one side, looked idyllic. The backdrop for a perfect childhood. Safe, friendly, neighbourly, with a little bit of nature to look at: wildness on a manageable scale.