It gets you at odd times, in the smaller, more intimate moments. She took herself off to the bathroom this morning, put the toothpaste on her brush, started to do her teeth, and then when I came looking for her she was grinning back at me with her cheeks bunched tight in a perfectly proud smile. She’s a big girl, you see.

Or there was the other day when we got home from a long drive and I unclipped her from her car seat and her floppy body clung into mine, arms around my neck. She was still half asleep, head against my shoulder, hair a little sweaty from the summer drive, so I carried her upstairs to our flat.

It might not sound like the most profound thing in the world when I say that I love my daughter, but it’s actually been a bit of a walk to get here.

My wife and I adopted her when she had just turned two. She’s four-and-a-half now, this little girl who chatters endlessly, sings songs about everything she sees, and giggles so hard that it makes her vibrate on the spot. Honestly, strangers stop in the street to stare when she starts laughing. It’s a dirty, earthy, joyous sound that infects everyone around her, and it makes my day. But I didn’t feel anything like this level of affection the first time I held her, or for quite a while thereafter. Or not fully, at least.

Love doesn’t always arrive with a fanfare, and it certainly doesn’t come all at once, especially when you adopt. It grows slowly, kind of unevenly, often catches you when you’re not really paying attention, and sort of layers itself in and around and on top of the doubt and exhaustion and everyday care that are a parent’s lot.

But I expected it to hit me when we met her, whatever it was meant to be.

She was a late bloomer, so although she was about to turn two, she was still barely speaking and could only walk when holding hands.........

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