My daughter rang me from a hospital bed and said four words. I drove there in my dress uniform — and found her husband’s family already in the corridor with a lawyer and an agreement dated nine days earlier.

Because she has lived in that house too.

And she learned, a long time before I got anywhere near it, that the only thing which holds any value in that family is paper with a date on it.

She did not rescue anybody. She has had that file since 2014 and she watched 2019 happen with it in her handbag.

What she did was hand it to the first person who walked into that family with enough standing to actually use it.

I was not a mother in that corridor, to her. I was a lever that had finally turned up.

I have met her twice since. Both at her request, both in public places, both about fifty minutes.

The second time I asked her the only question I actually wanted answered, which was why 2019 was not enough.

And she said: she didn’t have anybody.

Six words, over a cup of tea, about a woman of thirty-two in a car park with a pen.

She had the file in 2019. She had it in her handbag in that car park, and she looked at a young woman with no mother in uniform and no standing and nowhere to go, and she decided that handing it over would achieve nothing except the loss of the file.