Mum and Dad ordered a pizza. They said it was to celebrate the school holidays.

‘But it’s only Easter,’ I said, confused. ‘We never even celebrate the summer holidays.’ That’s when I turned to Dad and eyed him up suspiciously. ‘You hate holidays!’ I pointed at him accusingly. ‘They’re bad for work. You always say that.’

Dad’s mouth dropped open and he gaped at me like a fish. He made a strange noise that seemed to come from somewhere between his throat and nose, before falling silent.

I automatically looked at Mum to fill in the gap, but she didn’t. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

‘What is it?’ I finally asked. ‘Did my teachers say something bad about me?’

Suddenly it was like I was Sherlock, asking all the questions.

‘Safiya, your dad and I have something to tell you,’ Mum said. She took a deep breath, as if she was sucking in the words from the air, ready to spit them out. ‘We’re getting a divorce.’

I didn’t look at either of them. My eyes were locked on my slice of pepperoni and sweetcorn pizza, the cheese congealed into lumps as it cooled, oil dripping on to the plate.

I counted the number of drops. One, two, three . . . four.

‘Well?’ Mum asked nervously.

I blinked. ‘What?’

‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ she snapped, before biting her lip. ‘Sorry . . . No, it’s fine, you don’t need to say anything.’ But I could tell she wanted me to. Mum didn’t leave conversations hanging.

I looked at Dad. He was staring at his plate too, and I could tell he was crying. Did he even want a divorce? Dad adored Mum. He was always doing little things like leaving her notes, bringing her coffee in bed, or buying her books randomly. Why would you do that and then leave someone? I was convinced Mum was behind it all.

I knew I had to say something. I could’ve asked why, or when, or if there was a chance they might change their minds. Instead my nine-year-old self asked, ‘Can I live with Dad?’

I actually made it through a whole day of school today.

Luckily Dad never found out that I snuck off to Mum’s flat the other day after lunch. When he asked where the blankets and cushions came from, I just said I picked them up one day after school.

Elle, Abir, Izzy and I just finished our lesson with Ms Belgrave. She didn’t sneak me any sweets this time. It’s OK, though, because as soon as we’re out of the school gates Izzy pulls out a whole packet of biscuits.

‘My favourite. I love you!’ Abir says, taking a handful.

Izzy rolls her eyes, but grins and offers them to me.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a few too.