The truth is I don’t get the endless creative treasures, loving pieces of art or toilet roll fairies that other mummies receive as a sign of true love. And dutifully collect in ever expanding nooks and crannies around the house. Rosy’s traditional creative abilities fall way short of the six-and-a-half years she’s been around. Barely able to hold a crayon in a tripod grip, she is prolific in scribbles and scrawls… pages and pages and pages… but there is little else.

So, I look for other things to treasure in Rosy. Her gaze when she chooses to shine it upon me – it positively glows, warms me from the inside out, seeing her eyes fix on mine. Her shuffle as she curls her long legs into my lap and under my arms for a snuggle. Her repetition of my favourite phrase, “Hello, baby girl”. Or her only ability to kiss, a “mwah” and a smile.

This all adds up to one thing… trust.

Unquestioning, innocent, utter trust. Trust that I love her, enjoy her company, find her captivating, funny and frustrating in equal measure. Most of all trust that those constants will continue forever.

Let it be that – just that… no more, no less, but always and true.

Sleep well, baby girl.