Joan swiped at one tear. ‘Okay.’ Then she narrowed her eyes, looking from the nurse to the doctor and the other person standing with us, who had yet to introduce herself. ‘I’m only going if I can stay with Ollie, though!’

Joan stayed with me. By the time we got home there was barely any of the night left, and the doctor was hopeful that soon Leanne could be consulted about her daughter’s care. After mugs of hot chocolate left to go cold, and two pieces of toast that went stiff on the plate, I made up the sofa bed in my office, scooting around to Joan’s cottage to fetch her own duvet and pillow in the hope that the familiarity would help her sleep. I would have tucked her up in her own bed and slept on the sofa, if it wasn’t for a broken shower and piles of mess and my genuine concern that the mould could have caused Leanne’s illness.

I lay in bed, watching the sunrise beyond my open window, and thought about how life can flip inside out in one faltering heartbeat.

Joan looked about as awful as I felt when she shuffled downstairs later that morning. But we gamely attempted more toast and hot tea, and put on our bravest, most optimistic masks when we drove back to the hospital for afternoon visiting hours.

Leanne was awake, despite looking as though she shouldn’t be. With sallow skin stretched taut across her face, her eyes were flat and bleak, hair stringy, colourless tangles. She managed a two-second smile when Joan walked up to the bed, before being drained from the effort. When Joan fell onto Leanne’s chest, it was all she could do to lift one bony hand and rest it on her daughter’s head, leaving her silent tears to trickle freely down her cheeks.

‘Hey. I’d ask how you’re feeling, but you look even worse than me,’ I said, offering the warmest smile I could muster.

‘Thank you,’ Leanne croaked, her eyes telling me that she wasn’t referring to the greeting.

‘You’re welcome.’

After a few minutes of muted, laborious chat, a doctor arrived for her afternoon rounds. Leanne asked if I could stay while she provided an update.

After doing a full screen of blood and other tests, they had a diagnosis. Leanne had hepatitis C. Her liver was a wreck. They would need to do more tests to establish to what extent. The social worker appeared and took Joan to find something to eat and a ‘treat for Mummy’ while the doctor checked whether Leanne was sure she wanted me present for the next part of the conversation.

‘I’ve got nothing to hide from Ollie,’ she said, fumbling across the bed for my hand. ‘If anything happens to me, someone’s got to explain it to Diamanté Butterfly one day.’

The doctor glanced at me, puzzled.

‘Joan.’