Sue huffs occasionally as we speak; the nice nurse rolls her eyes and we grin at one another. It’s a relief to go over it, and the nice nurse looks engaged, her eyes sparkling as I talk.

‘Wow,’ the nice nurse says when I’m done. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to –’

‘Safiya?’

I turn round. ‘Dad?’ I say, surprised.

He looks old for his years, his face a canvas of wrinkles. My heart aches to see it. Were they there before all of this?

The nice nurse leads me to him and I thank her.

‘Dad,’ I whimper, falling into his arms. ‘It’s all my fault.’ Dad frowns. ‘What is?’

‘All of it!’ I sob, and then I tell him.

I tell Dad about the argument and the horrible things I said; I tell him about all those times I pushed Mum away, and how I never listened; then I tell him about the headache she had, and how I kept pushing things, even though she felt bad.

By the time I’m done Mum’s jacket is covered in my tears, and the nurse has made two trips to get me tissues.

‘Safiya,’ Dad says, pulling me aside so we have privacy. ‘Look at me,’ he says, and I do. I stare into his big blue eyes until I feel grounded again. Because right now it’s like I’m made of helium, and I could float, float, float away into the sky. ‘This is not your fault. None of it is.’

He goes on to explain that Mum was sick long before our argument; she just didn’t know it.

‘But –’

Dad holds his hand up. ‘I’m not finished,’ he says warmly, using the same hand to stroke my cheek. ‘Your mother loves you,’ he says. ‘More than anything. And an argument, no matter how big, isn’t going to change that.’

‘But . . . but I never said it.’ My lip quivers.

‘Said what?’

‘I love you.’

Dad shakes his head and laughs. ‘You don’t need to say it, Safiya. She already knows.’

Does she? I think. Does she really?

Dad must sense my doubts. ‘Weren’t you the one who painted Mum’s new flat with her?’

I nod.

‘And didn’t you dress up for her birthday and plan a party?’

I nod again.

‘And what about that time you walked from town with her favourite coffee and breakfast to make her feel better when she was ill?’

I had forgotten this, all of it.

‘OK. So don’t be so hard on yourself. You did your best.’

I wish his words could fix this, but I’m not sure they can. Still, they’re grounding me. But that’s Dad: he always stops me from floating away into the stars.

‘Now, what’s that you have there?’