I moved around the table to where little Faith, a tiny thing with a frog-green beanie (one I had crocheted for her and sparked this group’s interest in the craft) and a permanent blush on her face, was wrangling an empty hook and a tangle of hot pink yarn.

“I suck at this, I’m never going to get it!” she moaned softly, her little head dropping into her bony hands.

I wanted to sob. I wanted to wrap her up in my arms and tell her that she was the most amazing, brave little fighter I’d ever met, and that even if she never managed to keep yarn on a crochet hook, she could do so many other things that were incredible in their own right.

“Hey,” I managed, my throat thick. “Remember what you said when you tried to teach me how to sing Cardigan?”

Faith’s cheeks went even redder, and she covered her mouth to stifle a horrified giggle.

“It was so mean!” Faith squeaked.

“Remind me again,” I said firmly, flashing her a conspiratorial grin so she’d know I wasn’t upset.

“Jemma!” she mumbled between her fingers, then took a deep breath and dropped her hands. “I said that you sounded like that cat that sits on the fence outside my window and screeches like it’s dying!”

The words came out in a rush, like she was scared someone would come and admonish her for them.

“And you were right!” I exclaimed. “But I kept practising, and what happened?”

Ellie and Harper chortled as Faith said, “Well, you didn’t sound like a dying cat, as much.” The girl’s face broke into a grin. “You were more like a cat with a bad case of laryngitis.”

I couldn’t help myself. I snorted. Dropping my own crocheting, I grabbed a tissue and hurriedly wiped away the snot that had splattered from my nose across my lips and chin. I jumped up, discarding the tissue and squirting a liberal amount of hand sanitiser into my palms, massaging it halfway up my arms.

When I returned to the table, the girls were still giggling.

“My point is, sometimes we just suck at things. And that’s okay. We don’t have to be amazing at everything we try. We don’t even have to be mediocre at it. I’m good at crocheting, but I suck at singing. You, on the other hand, have a voice like an angel … and my goodness, your drawings are so detailed and lifelike! So … it’s okay to suck at crocheting. And it’s okay to decide it’s not for you. Life’s too short to keep pushing if something is stressful or unenjoyable.”

I stumbled to a halt, my eyes wide as I glanced from one small face to another, anticipating the moment when one of them cracked and the reality of their situation poured back in.