My 8-year-old son gave up his lunch money to buy a little girl with Down syndrome a red dress—the next morning, our lawn was covered with lunchboxes, but what was inside the biggest one made him go pale.

Felix gave her the dress at about half past two.

Perrin put it on her over her vest and Effie made a noise I have never heard before or since — a sort of shriek that turned into a wheeze — and grabbed the skirt with both fists and spun herself round until she went over sideways into the grass.

Then she got up and did it again.

She wore it for the rest of the day. She wore it in the paddling pool. It is ruined and Perrin has kept it.

Felix laughed so hard he had to sit down on a step.

That night I went into his room and told him I was proud of him, and he said “thanks Mum” in the way they do when they’re already three-quarters asleep, and I stood in his doorway for a bit longer than I needed to.

On Monday the twelfth of May, at half past six in the morning, my son came into my bedroom at a dead run.