Richard went home that evening, leaving me to spend a second night at the hospital. I knew there was nothing I could do. I just needed to be as close to you as possible.

The late-shift nurse handed me a packet of wet wipes when she came on duty and I wondered if I was starting to smell. She pulled a woolly hat off and her coat was damp across the shoulders. She made some remark about the rain as she hung it up in the cupboard behind the desk and I realised I had no idea what was happening in the outside world and I didn’t really care.

The hospital settled into sleep. I was learning its rhythms. The bustle of early morning with its rumbling trolley wheels. The coming and going during the day. Red-eyed parents, clutching hands. Endless coffees. Waiting. I recognised the look. Dazed and disbelieving. None of us expected to find ourselves here.

They let me see you, just for ten minutes, to say goodnight.

I put my head on the pillow, my cheek against yours. You had a special ritual for settling your toys – your children, you called them. Kitty cat, the glove puppet, on one end. Then puppy, wrapped round in a piece of white cloth. Then the battered rabbit you’d had since you were a baby. Finally, your bear. We kissed each of their noses before I kissed yours.

You weren’t allowed to have them in hospital, for fear of infection. But I talked you through the ritual just the same and pretended they were there and finally kissed the tip of your nose.

‘I love you, little Gracie. Goodnight. Mummy’s right here.’

Your eyes were closed. The drip, feeding liquid into your hand, clicked and whirred.

When my time was up, I trailed down to the café and sat in the same seat with a dreary sandwich and a cup of tea. The corridor was quiet. Another hour and the café would close. I picked at the ham in the sandwich and stared at the tabletop, thinking about you and wondering how long it would be until I could take you home.

‘Is that all you’re having?’

I looked up. Matt, smiling as he strode towards me, his coat unbuttoned.

‘Hi.’

‘I thought I might find you here.’

I shook myself. ‘How was your day?’

He shrugged. ‘Long. How about you? How’s Gracie?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I paused. ‘They keep saying there’s progress. But she doesn’t look any different.’

He nodded. ‘It’s a slow process.’ He hesitated, looking again at my dry sandwich. ‘Look, there’s an Indian round the corner. I’m going for a curry before I head home. Come and eat some proper food.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s nice of you but—’

‘Come on.’ He reached for the sandwich and pushed it back into the packet. ‘Keep this for later. They’ll call you if there’s any change.’

I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of leaving you. Just coming off the ward felt hard. And I certainly wasn’t interested in being sociable. But I was exhausted and frightened and very alone and he seemed kind.

‘It’s only a few doors down.’

I’d imagined something cheap and cheerful but the Indian was a proper restaurant with linen tablecloths and low lighting. Matt had an easy manner with the waiter, ordering us a bottle of wine and a few dishes.

I unfolded my napkin on my knee and stared at the candle on the table. It struck me how unreal this all felt, having dinner with this doctor, a stranger, while you, my love, fought for life in a nearby hospital bed.

‘You’re doing so well.’ His voice was gentle. ‘You must be shattered.’

I bit my lip. ‘She means the world to me. Gracie.’

‘Of course she does.’ He hesitated. I felt his eyes on my face as I focused on the tiny flame. ‘Is there anyone you can call? Who can stay with you?’

The flame bent and flailed as I sighed. There wasn’t anyone. No brothers or sisters. My father had died when I was a teenager. My mother was frail now and increasingly forgetful. I hadn’t even told her about the accident. I hoped I wouldn’t have to. She was still angry with Richard for leaving us.

‘Not really.’ I didn’t want to talk about it. ‘Her father, Richard, was here earlier. It was his partner, Ella, who was driving.’

I lifted my eyes to look at him, wondering how much he knew about us. How much doctors talked.

‘Keep positive. Gracie’s doing well. And at this age, they can rally very quickly. You’d be surprised.’

I didn’t answer. The waiter brought the wine and poured us both a glass. A strong red. The taste of it was overwhelming. Matt reached forward and steadied my hand, guiding the glass back to the table.

‘Eat first. You’re running on empty.’

When the food arrived, he took my plate and served me, as if I were a child. I let him. It was a long time since anyone had taken care of me and, God knows, I needed it. My shoulders sagged. Just lifting my knife and fork seemed a monumental effort of will.

While we ate, he chatted lightly about the film he’d seen at the weekend, the thriller he’d just finished reading. I was grateful for the distraction. His voice was low and thoughtful and as the wine slowly spread its warmth, my body started to relax, just a little, and my eyes to close.

He insisted on paying, waving the waiter away with his credit card before I could protest. He walked me back to the hospital’s broad revolving doors.

‘There’s a chapel, you know. On the third floor. If you want somewhere quiet.’

I looked at my feet. ‘I’m not really, I mean, I haven’t been to church for—’

He lifted his hand. ‘Sure. I just meant, a safe space, that’s all. Somewhere a bit more private where you can sit and think.’ He paused. ‘It’s usually empty.’

I don’t know how it happened but I turned away to go back inside, then turned back and stepped wordlessly into his arms and he enveloped me in a strong, warm hug and for a few moments I felt safe and protected, for the first time in a long time.

---

The chapel was hidden away down a long corridor. It was a modern room, hushed and carpeted, with two high, round windows decorated with shards of stained glass. Printed notices at the back declared it a place of sanctuary for those of all faiths and those of none. Laminated prayer cards were piled beside copies of the Bible and the Quran.

A plain wooden cross stood on a table at the front, which was covered with a freshly laundered cream cloth. An aisle led the way towards it, between rows of soft-seated chairs.

I sat at the front and focused my eyes on the cross and tried to calm down. My thoughts ran everywhere. To the church I’d attended with my mother as a child, a draughty stone building that had smelt of damp. The priest had been elderly and given endless, rambling sermons. I’d stopped going as soon as I could.

I bent my head forward over clasped hands and tried to remember how to pray.

‘Please, God. Please don’t take her. She’s too young. I need her.’

My knuckles whitened. I didn’t know whether to beg God or to rail against Him for putting you through this. What was He thinking, letting this happen to a three-year-old?

My chest heaved as I started to sob.

‘Please don’t take her. She’s all I’ve got now. You know that.’

My voice sounded hysterical. I barely knew what I was saying.

‘Don’t take Gracie. Don’t. I’ll do anything.’

I sobbed for a long time, desolate, trying to strike a bargain with a God I wasn’t even sure I believed in.

Finally, I wiped off my face, went miserably back to the ward and slumped there, facing the wall, keeping watch as best I could until morning came.

At some time in the small hours, I must have fallen asleep. I woke with a start just after seven, aware of the ward once again stirring into life.

A warm coffee in a takeaway cup and a croissant sat in front of me on the table. ‘Try to eat’ was scrawled across the paper bag.

The day nurse was already on duty.

‘Any news?’

‘They’ll tell you if there’s any change.’ She looked at me pitifully. Her hair was neatly pinned and she smelt of soap. I felt the contrast with my own wrecked, crumpled self and wondered how much longer I could keep this up.

I rubbed a wet wipe over my face and sipped the coffee.

---

At eight o’clock, they let me see you. I lie beside you on the bed, one arm across your chest, the other slipped under your head, resting it on my shoulder.

‘Good morning, my love.’

Your cheek is smooth and cool. The early morning sun filters in through the blinds and paints stripes across the floor. I think of the chapel with its round stained-glass windows and the coloured light that must be streaming there.

‘I love you, Gracie. Mummy’s here.’

I keep my voice low and whisper into your ear, willing you to hear me.

‘It’s the start of another day, sweetheart. And you know what day it is today? It’s the day you’re going to start to get better. Much better.’

I sigh and my breath stirs strands of your hair. I lie quietly, utterly exhausted, feeling your small body in my arms, staring at the blank wall beyond the bed. As I look, scenes from the last four years play there in that small, sterile room, running in slow motion on the painted wall like a soundless black and white cine film from decades ago.

Your blotchy scrunched-up face the day we carried you home from hospital, holding you as fearfully as if you were glass. Richard, sitting on the settee and cradling you, your tiny head resting in the crook of his arm, gazing at you with so much tenderness that it stopped my breath. Your first wobbly steps in the garden, pushing a toy buggy piled with furry bears and rabbits.

A wall of such sadness rises up and knocks the breath from my body that I start to shake, my legs juddering on the bed.

I whisper to you, trying not to cry: ‘Don’t leave me, Gracie. Please. Stay with me. You’re my whole world, my love. Please. Don’t you know how much I love you?’

Then I see it. Your eyelids flutter and the tip of your tongue pokes out between your lips and a flicker of life, real life, comes back into your face. I pull away from you, jumping off the bed, and lean on the red emergency button and, at the same moment, the machine on the far side of the bed starts to bleep.

Footsteps slap hurriedly down the corridor and voices come with them and a tall, dark-haired nurse runs in, one I haven’t seen before. She takes one look at you and calls back over her shoulder to someone else and rushes to the bed, snatching up the clipboard from its base and scribbling some readings from the screens. Even as she does so, another nurse appears with the American doctor and someone else takes me forcefully by the shoulders and moves me back, away from the bed, to give them all room.

Not long afterwards, Richard appears in the doorway, his face tense. A nurse, understanding nothing about us, propels me towards him and he opens his arms and holds me, looking over my shoulder at you as you lie motionless in bed, and at the frantically working, rushing medics suddenly filling the room with their movements, their short, sharp, urgent exchanges.

I’m crying now, weeping into your father’s collar, bathing in the old familiar smell of his skin. I press my face into his neck and the crying veers in and out of wild laughter and he pats my back awkwardly and murmurs: ‘Hush, Jen. Calm down.’

I don’t care. I know what’s happened. The doctors do their best but they only know so much. You were lost in a place where even they couldn’t reach you and somehow, even there, you felt me and heard me and came back to me, back to this troubled world just to be with me. I don’t know how that’s possible but it is. It really is.