And just when I clock what’s different about her, she squeals.

‘GET OUT! Get out of my room – get out, get out!’

I back away, trying to turn, but there’s not enough space to move fast in this tiny single room, and her mum’s right behind me.

‘What have you done to her?’

‘Nothing, I—’

I saw my daughter without her wig.

Angelica bustles me out into the hallway and the bedroom door slams shut. I can hear her say soothing things to Casey, but it doesn’t seem to be helping: the sobs are horrible.

I go back into the kitchen and wipe down the tray, putting the toast to one side in case she fancies it when she’s calmed down. If she calms down. She looked much better without the wig, but she’d never believe me if I said so. I remember how shitty it felt to be different: the stares and the sympathy from adults. The whispers and teasing from the other kids.

Enough already. I can’t compare what happened to me to what Casey is going through.

After twenty minutes of silence I start worrying about being late. It’s my turn to walk her to the hospital, though she may not want me to now.

Seconds before I knock on the door, Angelica comes into the room. She holds her fingers up to her lips and I get the message that we won’t mention this again. Right behind her, Casey walks into the kitchen, the wig back on her head, the blonde hairs brushed dead straight. She won’t meet my eye.

‘I’m going to walk to the unit on my own today,’ Casey says.

‘No!’

‘I don’t think—’

Angelica and I speak at the same time. This is a first: we agree on something.

Casey tuts. ‘It’s fine. I know the way now.’

‘You’re only twelve,’ her mum says.

‘Sometimes I’m a lot more of a grown-up than you are,’ Casey snaps back and, though I see her point, I try to keep my face neutral.

‘No. The traffic here is insane,’ Angelica says. ‘We haven’t gone through all this for you to be run over by an articulated lorry or a deranged cyclist.’

‘I’ve been crossing roads on my own since I was six.’

‘Not in a city centre!’

Is this bickering just about whatever happened yesterday? Casey’s treatment could be making her tetchy, but Angelica seems edgier too.

‘If you don’t get off my case, I’m not going in. You can’t make me.’

There’s a heaviness in the air, like you get before a massive storm.

‘Let’s stick to the original plan,’ I say, after a bit. ‘I’ll walk you in, but we don’t have to talk. Angelica, you deserve the day to yourself.’

Mother and daughter stare murderously at each other, but it’s obvious they don’t have any better suggestions.

‘Whatever,’ Casey says. ‘I’ll get my bag.’

I pick up the plate. ‘I saved your toast.’

‘Not hungry.’

When Casey stomps out, her mother gives me a rueful shrug. Being in the doghouse with our daughter makes us, briefly, united. Angelica must be stronger than she looks to cope with this day after day, year after year, with no one to back her up.