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Something about the way he says it reignites the smouldering outrage at injustice that flared up in me earlier at the contact centre.

‘I may not have done it before, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. I was a child once myself!’ I glare at him as he sits back in surprise at my tone. After a beat, I say, ‘I think it’s probably a good idea if you go home now, Gareth. I’m rather tired after the day I’ve had.’

‘Fine.’ He nods in agreement and puts down his ginger beer. ‘Look, how about we arrange to do something nice when all this is over? There’s a film night at the end of the month at the golf club. They’re playing The Greatest Showman.’

I smile at him. ‘That sounds lovely. Just depends on what’s happening with Willow.’

‘Well, they’ll have got him sorted out by then, surely?’

‘I’m sure,’ I say and wish him a good night, letting Tegan out for a last wee. Then, exhausted, I make my way upstairs with Tegan to get ready for bed.

I don’t sleep much. At least, it doesn’t feel as if I did . . . but then I wake to see Willow standing by my bed in the pale morning light.

‘I had . . . an accident,’ he says.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I say, throwing back the covers and jumping out of bed. ‘I’ll sort it.’

‘I’ve stripped the bed, put the sheets in the washing machine, but I can’t find the washing powder.’

‘Gosh, er, okay . . .’ I’m taken aback, but then I remember that Willow cared for his mother. I wonder what other duties he had to take on. ‘Let me show you where everything is kept.’

Five minutes later, in the kitchen, he sits at the table while I head for the cupboard, tightening the belt of my long tapestry dressing gown (it’s really Paddy’s; I bought it for him in a second-hand shop).

‘Right, breakfast. What’s it to be?’ I say, scanning the shelves.

‘I made tea and toast. For me and Tegan. Let her out for a wee. She seemed to need to go. I hope that’s okay.’

‘Yes, of course, well done.’ I smile at him and then at Tegan, who I suspect had most of the toast; I can see crumbs on her whiskers. She is sitting placidly beside Willow as he strokes her, clearly finding reassurance in it. It’s as if she’s intentionally helping him settle in here, which only goes to show what a special dog she is – but then, I’ve always known that.

Willow doesn’t say much for the rest of the morning. The day stretches ahead of us like a huge, blank canvas I have to fill, only there’s no paint in my palette to do it with.

I just hope Lara will be here soon.

Chapter 5

‘Keep doing what you’re doing,’ Lara tells me.

It’s late afternoon, and we are standing beside her car as she gets ready to leave after spending an hour with us. Willow is inside on the kitchen sofa with Tegan, stroking her. It seems they are forming a firm friendship, no words needed. Tegan seems to be doing everything Willow needs right now. Just being by his side.

I glance back at the orange glow from the kitchen windows; the sun is starting to set.

‘I just . . .’ I’m searching for the right words. I don’t know when I last felt like this, unsure of what to do for the best. Or maybe I do. Maybe it was when Paddy was ill. ‘I feel so out of my depth.’ I raise my arms a little and let them fall by my sides, under the shawl I’ve wrapped round me just to come out and say goodbye to Lara, over my long, full, corduroy skirt, thick tights and wellingtons.

She gives me her reassuring smile.

‘It’s okay. That’s totally normal,’ she says, in a voice that makes me want to believe her. ‘I promise. Just go with your instincts. Willow will still be trying to adjust to his new situation, too. Remember, I’m here to support you both, and you have my number.’

‘But he’s barely eating,’ I say. I can feel panic starting to rise as I think about that. Feeding a child is so fundamental, and it feels like such a big responsibility. ‘I don’t know how to get him to just take a few mouthfuls.’

‘I’m sure he’ll eat when he’s ready,’ Lara says, and I’m once again caught off guard at how this young woman – probably twenty years younger than me – is able to comfort me and guide me so confidently through these uncharted waters. Somehow I instinctively trust her. She’s got more experience with all of this than I do.

‘Have you got children?’ I ask.

She looks down and shakes her head.

‘No.’ She clears her throat. ‘My partner wasn’t keen.’

I get the impression she’s being diplomatic. I chew my bottom lip, sensing that I’m crossing a line from the professional into the personal and should maybe back up. But given everything else going on, it’s hard to know where that line is between us.