Our brave little girl
Tucking my 11-year-old daughter, Ava, into bed, I kissed the top of her head and breathed a sigh of relief. But as happy as I was, I felt anxious, too. It was August 2017, and although Ava was home, sleeping in her own bed for the first time in months, she was weaker and frailer than the last time she’d been here.
Two months earlier, that June, I’d picked Ava up after a week-long school trip to Shropshire. I’d been looking forward to hearing all about what she’d got up to, but she’d returned unwell with an upset tummy. I assumed she’d picked up a bug, but over the next few days, she couldn’t keep anything down. My husband, Steve, then 48, and I were worried,
