Stop it, I tell myself. I can get through the funeral. I can deal with those people. I’m proud of the life I’ve built for myself. My house, my garden, my friends, my career. Soon, I’ll bring a child into this world and he or she is going to be loved and nurtured, listened to and encouraged. I’m going to hug my child every single day. They’re going to feel loved and seen. I’m not a product of my parents. I’m my own person in spite of my parents. So yes, I’ll go to Dad’s funeral out of familial responsibility. But not out of respect for him – he lost that years ago. And not for Mum. She deserves nothing from me at all.

35

“We should probably get out of the car,” says Will.

“Suppose.”

Since we pulled into the church car park ten minutes ago, neither of us has spoken. After a morning of comfortable, easy-going chatter during the drive down, we can no longer pretend we’re fine.

I stare through the windscreen at the church where I spent so many uncomfortable, distressing hours.

“I hated this place,” says Will. “Still do.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t fill me with warm fuzzies, either.”

“I remember Dad once had a big rant at me here,” says Will, glaring at the church. “He told me I was slouching and I wasn’t giving the minister enough attention and respect. Dad actually accused me of looking too happy in church. Can you believe it? He said I smiled too much.” Will sighs and gives a rueful shake of his head. “I was four years old, Trish. Not unsurprisingly, I never smiled in church again.”

“I can’t believe you found anything to smile about in the first place.” It’s good to hear Will talk this way – maybe I can be brave enough to talk about our parents, too. “I used to play a game in my head,” I say quietly, my heart thumping. This is the first time I’ve talked about the realities of my childhood with anyone. “When we were filing out of church, I’d look around at the other families and imagine I belonged to them instead. I literally pictured myself walking over, taking another mum or dad’s hand and leaving with them.”

“I used to go home after church, shut myself in my bedroom and cry.”

I’m dumbfounded. “Really?”

He nods. “For years.”

“You were so stony-faced, like nothing affected you at all.”

Will laughs. “Trish, I learnt early on it was better never to show any emotion around Dad. My bedroom was the only place in the house where I didn’t feel like I was being watched and judged and could let it all out.”

“At least you didn’t have to deal with Mum,” I whisper.