My sister received the joyous news that her son has been accepted at a Welsh language primary school in Monmouthshire this week.

Since April of last year, he’s attended the nursery there and his progression in English and Welsh, not to mention his social skills and social life, has come on leaps and bounds in a way that simply wouldn’t have been the case had he waited until past his fourth birthday.

The deep joy in hearing him trot out “amser snack” or “pencampwriaeth” and “bore da” is immeasurable.

Tiny seeds taking root. A broken inheritance mended. Atonement.

Or so it should be.