That night, at bath time, you said, from nowhere: ‘Do you like him as much as you like Daddy?’

I had just lifted you into the bubbles and was drawing shapes on your back with my finger. It was a guessing game, my mother did the same with us when we were children, but at this age, there wasn’t a lot of guesswork. Half the time, you told me what to draw before I started.

I carried on, pretended not to hear.

‘It’s got a big body and four legs like this and a large head with big flapping ears.’

You didn’t move.

‘And a very, very long trunk.’

You twisted round, delighted. ‘An elephant!’

I tried to look amazed. ‘How did you know?’

‘Another one. Do a bunny.’

I dipped my finger in the bubbles again.

‘This one is really hard.’

You tensed, eyes forward towards the taps, bracing your back as you concentrated.

‘So. This one is small with long floppy ears. One. Two. And big feet. And a small round tail called a scut.’

‘A bunny!’

‘Yes!’

You beamed.

Later, we snuggled together in the armchair by your bed. You were wrapped up in a big, warm towel, then wrapped again in my arms. Your pyjamas, your favourite ones with the Dalmatians, lay across the back of the chair, waiting until we’d finished our cuddle.

‘I love you, little Gracie.’

The ends of your hair were still damp and I rubbed them dry in the folds of the towel. You wriggled, twisted sideways to lie across my lap like a baby. Sometimes you liked to play babies when we were alone. I rocked you, put my lips to your cheek, your hair. You smelt clean, of lavender soap and scented bubble bath. You kicked as you settled and your tiny pink feet came free from the towel.

‘What story do you want? Have you chosen?’

You turned your face up to mine and that look came in your eyes, a knowing look, older than your years. ‘Is he downstairs?’

‘Who?’

You didn’t answer, just looked at me, as if to say: you know exactly who I mean.

‘If you mean Uncle Matt, no, he isn’t here tonight. Just Mummy.’

‘If you marry him, will he be my daddy?’

I hesitated, tried to find the right words. ‘Daddy will always be your real daddy, Gracie. Uncle Matt is Mummy’s special friend. He’s been very kind to us, hasn’t he?’

‘In Venice?’ You squirmed until you were sitting upright again, reached for your pyjamas and began to put them on. I fought back my urge to help you. It only caused an argument.

‘Yes, in Venice. And when he takes us out and buys us treats.’

You considered. ‘Daddy buys me treats too.’

‘He does. Daddy loves you very much, Gracie. He always will. Whatever happens with Uncle Matt.’

‘So I’ll have two daddies?’

‘In a way.’

‘And two mummies. You and Auntie Ella?’

‘Possibly.’ I struggled to keep my face neutral. ‘Into bed now.’

You finally let me tuck you up and I lay beside you while we read a couple of stories together. I switched off the light and sat in the armchair. You lay on your stomach, hunched forward with your forehead buried in your bear, your legs drawn up under you.

‘Shush.’ I made the word a long, steady sigh, which formed a wave of white noise through the quiet room. Gradually, as my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, familiar objects grew. The nursery rhyme pictures. The shelf of medicines, of stuffed animals and dolls, of books.

We moved you in here when you were just six months old. I didn’t want to. I wanted your cot to stay in our room, by my side of the bed, but Richard was adamant. He nearly broke his back, carrying the armchair up from the sitting room. If we’re going to spend half the night in here, he said, we may as well be comfortable. He didn’t know, then, how much of the time you’d end up sleeping in our bed, curled up with me.

You sigh, turn onto your back, bear abandoned, arm sprawled above your head. I lean forward for a closer look.

You look so beautiful, my love, you always do. I sit there for some time, listening to the rise and fall of your breathing and marvelling at you. Your skin shines clear and fresh. Your fair hair is splayed on the sheet. Your eyelids flicker as you dream and I wonder where you’ve gone to, what you’re seeing and feeling in sleep.

I try to imagine a baby girl called Catherine with ginger hair. Ella must have sat beside her as she slept and kept watch, as I’m keeping watch over you. She must have nursed her and changed her and stumbled out of bed, night after night, more asleep than awake, to lift her out of her cot when she cried and rock her back to sleep. How could she not adore her, protect her? I shake my head. Was it really possible that she’d lost her temper and shaken her so hard that she’d hurt her? How could any mother do that?

When I climbed in beside you in your hospital bed, amid the wires and drips, to hold you as tightly as I dared, to bring you back, you felt so frail, so lost. You had the bones of a bird. I blinked, remembering, then lowered my face to yours until I was so close that I could hear the puff of your breath.

I love you, little Gracie. If anyone tries to hurt you, ever, I don’t know what I’ll do. I close my eyes, wrap my arms round myself and shudder. I’ll do anything to save you. I know I will. Anything it takes.