On the way home, my hands shook on the steering wheel. I bit down on my lip to stop myself from crying. When I stopped at traffic lights, the eyes in the driving mirror were frantic. I switched off my mobile and pushed it to the bottom of my bag.

I drove as fast as I dared but I was late collecting you from nursery. Your face was tight with hurt, the teachers cross.

As soon as we entered the house, I locked the door behind me and bolted it, then went through to the sitting room and closed the curtains. You watched, wary.

‘What are you doing, Mummy?’

I swallowed hard. ‘Let’s watch television this afternoon. It’ll be fun.’

A moment later, the phone started to ring in the kitchen. I couldn’t move. We stood there, side by side, listening to the ring. Finally, it stopped.

After lunch, I got the box of videos out and let you watch as many cartoons as you liked. You were utterly absorbed. You clutched your bear to your chest, sometimes bouncing on the settee with excitement, sometimes chuckling, lost in the world of your programme.

As I watched with you, I could almost feel myself a child again, watching television in the afternoon, fresh from school, barely aware of the sounds that ran always beneath the soundtrack, the distant thud and crash of my mother as she moved about the kitchen, scraping and stirring and washing as she made my tea.

I took out my wallet and studied the picture of myself as a small girl, innocent in a summer dress and sandals. A scene from a world that was lost now. My parents close behind me, protecting me. Their faces so impossibly young.

I was still gazing at it when your video finished and you hung over my knee to reach for my wallet, to see what I was looking at.

‘Mummy, what’s that?’

I bent low and kissed your head, smelled your hair, your skin.

‘That’s an old picture.’ I hesitated, letting you look before I explained. ‘Guess who these people are?’

You peered more closely at the faces, then shouted. ‘Mr Michael! Look!’ Your eyes glowed with pleasure. ‘It’s him, Mummy. Look! Why did you say he was made up? He’s real!’

I stared. I couldn’t speak.

You grabbed my wallet with both hands, excited. ‘He’s got normal clothes!’ You considered. ‘Where is he? Who’s that girl?’

‘That’s me, sweetheart,’ I managed to say. ‘When I was about your age. With my mummy and daddy. That’s me.’

You hesitated, thinking.

I pointed. ‘See? That’s Grandma. Doesn’t she look young?’

‘Grandma?’ You narrowed your eyes as if you were struggling to reconcile the young woman in the picture with the elderly one you knew. ‘Why’s she with Mr Michael?’

‘That isn’t Mr Michael. That’s your grandpa.’

You shook your head. ‘I don’t have a grandpa.’

‘You did. You just never saw him. He died a long time ago.’

‘Silly Mummy.’ You laughed. ‘He isn’t dead. He’s looking after baby Catherine and the other girls and boys.’

I looked again at the young man, thinking of the father I remembered. Gentle and funny and strong and wonderful with small children.

‘So you do know Mr Michael.’ You sounded hurt now, considering. ‘Why did you say he wasn’t real?’