“Do you ever get that feeling,” I said today to Justin, “when you look at Evan? That rush of love? What does that feel like for you?”

“Like Boxing Day when I was little,” he replied. “When I'd wake up and suddenly remember that I got the present I'd wanted more than anything.”

First, my stomach turns. Then it flip-flops up into my chest and chokes a breath. It hits me with a glimpse of a pudgy knee, or an ear smeared with lunch. It’s a powerful thing, this pouring, this zap. Not unlike the sensation of being scared – when you’re walking through the woods at night and are overcome with an urgent, irrational need to run from the dark, heart racing, bats and badness at your heels.

This is not intended to be a hallmark card. It’s instinctual, ancient, impossibly heavy. I can’t bear the thought of his life going wrong, or failing him in any way.

He keeps us light: most often with a well-timed fart. And with his stories, and cheshire grins, and his hair, standing on end from static and hummus. Four blessings of a million.