The thought of taking Mandla out where we’ll be vulnerable and subjecting him to all that hatred just turns my stomach. I believe in energy, both good and bad. Having all that animosity directed at us, without walls to protect us, can’t be good for either of us.

Dee lets out a long steadying breath and nods. “Fair enough.”

“Will you hold him for a minute while I get his lunch sorted?” I don’t wait for an answer. I just give her a pair of gloves and wait for her to pull them on before handing Mandla across. I can count on one hand the number of times she’s held him. All of them have been in the past few weeks, though, so that’s got to count for something.

“Lunch time!” I say to Mandla once his food is ready and Dee carries him over to his high chair and puts him in. “Yummy. Doesn’t this look positively mouthwatering? This is all the rage in France, you know. All the best chefs are serving this to the babies with the most discerning palates.”

Mandla thumps his hands on his table.

Dee puts his bib on and then picks the spoon up, dipping it into the bowl and bringing the colorful chunky mixture up to her mouth. “Hmm, this looks so good.” She makes a big production out of swallowing it and then smacking her lips in appreciation. “You want to try some?”

Mandla opens his mouth and takes a bite, which he keeps in his chipmunk cheeks for a few seconds before pulling a face and spitting it all out again.

“Are you sure you don’t like it? I’m going to finish it if you don’t hurry up and get in here.” Dee takes another bite but it goes down wrong. As she coughs and hacks the food back out in a spray across the table, Mandla lets out the first real laugh we’ve heard from him.

I want to cry with gratitude. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your choking was totally worth it,” I say, and she nods, eyes still streaming.

When the phone rings fifteen minutes later, Dee answers it and starts to chat with what sounds like Riaan.

“Come, little man. We need to get your nappy changed.” I take Mandla’s bib off, wipe his face and hands down, and carry him to his room, where the changing table is.

After laying him down, I automatically put on a fresh pair of latex gloves. Undoing his nappy, I stretch for the package of baby wipes above his head, and as I pluck one out, Mandla reaches out and grabs my hand. It’s always a strange sensation, seeing his fingers tightened over my mine, feeling the pressure of them, but not being able to touch the bare skin of his hand.