But Ilir never understood. Or perhaps he never accepted it. After a few visits in which I would play with him, read stories or take him to the beach, he became more insistent. ‘Mama here!’ he would shout every time he saw me. ‘Go Mama beach!’ Then, when it was time for me to leave, he would cling on to my leg, throw himself to the floor and kick his carers, insisting that I should either stay with him or take him with me. ‘Bring Ilir home,’ he would cry. ‘Mama take Ilir.’ He became increasingly difficult to handle in my presence: he refused to come out of the water at the beach, eat his food
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