He was still asleep when they came to take him away, and wheel him down to the special care baby unit where he would be prepped for surgery. We were to stay behind until we were called down to join him, and then we would be able to go with him as far as the operating theatre.

We talked about what had happened and what might happen next. Mark wanted to lay out the possibilities, to understand them, to take charge of them, as if being able to list all the eventualities would make them bearable, as if it was possible to prepare for whatever lay ahead. As if this was a challenge he couldn’t afford to fail. I let the details wash over me. I looked at the fear in Mark’s face, I heard the strain in his voice, and I was grateful that he was there with me, that I wasn’t completely alone.

And then a midwife came in and told us Felix was ready, and we went down to the special care baby unit to see him.

So many little sick babies in incubators. So many worried parents. And our baby in the middle of them, still asleep, lying in his hospital cot with its wheeled base and transparent rim with the drip running into his hand.

Mark stood by and watched me, and I sat by Felix and touched his little hand. He was awake now but drowsy, and I sang to him – very quietly, almost under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear. I sang him the same lullabies that I’d once sung to Ava and Ellie: ‘Hush, Little Baby’, ‘Lavender’s Blue’, ‘Greensleeves’. I couldn’t let him lie there in silence. I wanted to sing to him as if this was just any sleep, the ordinary kind, the kind we all wake up from.

And then the time came and they were ready for him.

It seemed a long walk to the operating theatre. They offered me a wheelchair but I said no: I was still sore from the birth, but I was determined to manage, to do this for Felix on my own two feet. After all, I wasn’t the one who was ill.

Felix was pushed along on his cot by the hospital porter, and Mark and I followed. The cot squeaked, and one of the doors of the cabinet under the mattress didn’t quite shut properly and kept banging. Mark told me later how much that sound bothered him. It was the small, persistent sound of something overlooked, something that either couldn’t or wouldn’t be fixed.

The corridor narrowed and twisted and turned, and there were fewer people around as we progressed. Eventually it was just us. We turned a corner and there, attached to the wall in front of us, was a whiteboard with a list written on it: times, names of patients, operations. All of the others were crossed off, apart from Felix, who was the very last and had been squeezed in where there was barely space.