I tell myself that it’s just because the baby has Rav’s dark hair and olive skin, that’s all. She doesn’t mean anything by it. I picture a dark-haired woman, rocking in a nursery chair the same as ours, an opposite to me. Her arms are empty, her baby gone. ‘Yes, just like Rav,’ I breathe, blinking the image away. ‘Did Rav bring the milk? Should I come and get him?’

‘No. I don’t need you to come.’ Avó is as blunt as ever, and I picture her standing in her tiny hallway, arms folded across her chest as she talks into the landline. She’s the only person I know who still uses one. ‘No, you rest, Allie. I can take care of my own grandchild.’

‘Of course you can.’ It’s such a tightrope with Avó, she can take offence at the slightest thing. ‘Would it be OK to leave him with you until I pick Mina up? Did Rav bring enough milk?’ At the thought of the baby’s little mouth working at the bottle teat, I feel a tingle and dampness seeps into the pads in my bra. I’ll have to pump, whatever Avó says.

‘Yes, yes, I told you already he brought it. He brought too much, probably. I’ll see you then.’ And she hangs up.