‘That’s the one, Mum. That’s the one who hates me.’

To my careful eyes, the child at the top of the slide, laughing, head thrown back, looks adventurous, not like a bully at all.

‘I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. What makes you say she hates you?’

‘Well, whenever I just wave to her and say, “Hi, Lucinda” she starts chasing me until she catches me then punches my arm.’

I look again at the girl and she, for a moment, looks at me.

‘She doesn’t hate you, my love.’

And my mother’s heart begins its bleed.