So, hoping she’ll forget about babies, I usher her upstairs for her bath; and later still, I chatter on, looking through her books for something she might like me to read to her. I keep pulling out stories to show her, but she doesn’t seem interested.

‘Are you really too old to have another baby?’ she asks from her bed.

I look around, taken aback momentarily. ‘I kind of am, love. But that’s okay, you know? I’m very lucky to have you and Spence.’

‘When do women get too old?’ she wants to know.

I smile; what a question. ‘For babies?’ She nods. ‘Um, it just gets more difficult to make a baby as you get older. In your forties, I mean, although it depends on the person. Everyone’s bodies are different.’

‘Were you old when you had me?’

‘Not really, sweetheart. Older than some mums, yes – but not ancient.’

She nods and seems to be mulling this over as I pull out another book and sit down on her bed.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes, love?’ I am primed for more baby-related questioning.

‘D’you mind if I read by myself now?’

I look at her, confused for a moment. ‘D’you mean just tonight? Or would you prefer that from now on?’

‘I’d prefer it. I’m nearly eight.’ She smiles.

Something seems to twist inside me as I kiss her forehead and get up from her bed. ‘I know you are, honey. And I also know you’re a good reader.’

I say goodnight and leave her to read by herself, still feeling a little strange as I make my way downstairs. So much so that I can’t settle to anything; so I step out to the garden and sit at our wrought-iron table on the patio for a while, just being quiet. Only a couple of stars are visible tonight, and without the app I can’t identify them.

So, Izzy doesn’t need me to read her stories anymore. I suspect that she hasn’t for a while, but wasn’t sure how to break it to me.

No need to be sad, I decide as I wander back into the house. I’ve loved reading those bedtime stories, first to Spencer and then to Izzy; all the dragons and witches and elves. I’ve loved the feeling of a warm, sleepy child snuggling next to me, transfixed by the tale. But moving on from that stage is just the natural way of things, and it hardly amounts to rejection. My daughter is just growing up.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Thursday, October 3

‘Viv, hi … is it Viv? Or d’you prefer Vivienne?’