‘Bonnie, quick!’ I yell. She comes running down the hallway. I sit her on the stairs and put on her shoes, her coat. I strap her into the buggy, and she doesn’t resist me at all. I open the door and walk to the park as quickly as I can. All the while thinking it’s going to jump out and land on my feet. But I hold it together, manage not to get us run over, and soon we are there.

‘What about over there?’ says Bonnie, pointing at an area of shrubbery. It’s as good a place as any, I suppose. Bonnie sits calmly in her buggy until I’ve pushed her over to it. As I unclip her, she smiles at me. It’s like she’s someone else’s child.

‘OK, I’ll get the bucket,’ I say, putting my Marigolds back on. Bonnie waits patiently. Again, most unlike my child.

‘I’m not scared of the mouse,’ she exclaims. I could be wrong, but I maybe detect a hint of protectiveness in her voice. Is she telling me I shouldn’t be either?

I carry the bucket from the buggy to the shrubbery like it’s a bomb that will explode with any sudden movement. I lay it on the ground. Bonnie goes at it like a bar of chocolate.

‘Wait, wait,’ I tell her. ‘We have to get this right.’

She does as I ask. I start to peel away the clingfilm. The mouse bolts around the base of the bucket when it sees the light pouring in. I want to kick it over and run away screaming. I hate it so much.

‘Mummy, you’re shaking,’ Bonnie says, putting her hand on my arm. My knee-jerk reaction is to shake her off, but I manage to stop myself and allow her to rest her hand on the fabric of my dress, raised from my skin by the fur.

‘I’m OK,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just cold.’

‘But it’s not cold?’

She looks at me in that way again. In a way that suggests she cares. She holds the look, and it sends a warm bolt of something soft inside of me, and I find myself not wanting to move on from this moment.

‘I’m not really cold,’ I tell her. ‘I’m frightened.’

‘What are you frightened of?’

It’s haunting being asked that question, even if it is by your three-year-old daughter. It’s hard not to list the things, to get them off my chest, just simply because someone, anyone, seems to care.

‘Of the mouse,’ I tell her.

‘Don’t be scared Mummy, it’s just a mouse.’