Mum leaps up to answer the door, and we follow her, and there’s lots more wild flapping of jazz hands as she pulls Daphne’s bewildered-but-pleased-looking father in for a hug.

While the two of them swap animated pleasantries across the doormat, Daff sneaks a kiss onto my lips and smiles. ‘Today was great,’ she whispers. ‘Really great.’

‘Yeah, it was brilliant.’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Merry Christmas.’

She kisses me again, and then she’s gone – down the path and into the car. And I’ve got no choice but to watch her go, not knowing where – or when – I’ll be the next time I see her.

Mum shuts the door, and turns to me with a grin. ‘Right then, young man,’ she says. ‘I think it’s high time I thrashed you at Monopoly.’

The ultra-competitive Christmas Eve Monopoly marathon was always a tradition in this house. I can’t even remember when it started, but it dated back a long way – to when Dad was still around. I was always the dog, Mum was always the ship and he was always the top hat. Those were the unwritten rules. No idea why, but we stuck to them rigidly. And as a result, the top hat in our Monopoly set hasn’t left the box since Christmas 1995.

Mum fetches another bottle of wine and stokes the fire while I get the game out of the cupboard behind the sofa. And as I do, I spot something else nestled there – something I’d completely forgotten about.

‘Oh my God,’ I laugh. ‘Is this the full collection?’

I pull out a little wooden rack stacked with cassettes, each one wrapped in its own carefully hand-written track list.

‘Of course,’ Mum says proudly. ‘Now That’s What I Call Long-Distance Car Trips. I’ve still got every one we ever made.’

I stare down at them, feeling a lump start to work its way into my throat. These tapes were another family tradition, although this one began after Dad left, when I was about twelve. Before every long car journey – whether it was a summer holiday or a weekend visit to see Nan in Sheffield – Mum and I would compile a tape for the trip. The track list would alternate back and forth: one song for her, one song for me. As a result, they are perhaps the only compilation albums on earth in which gentle folk rock weaves consistently in and out of hardcore gangsta rap.

We’d spend hours making these tapes, sitting cross-legged in front of the hi-fi together, scribbling the lists, doodling designs on the covers, taking the mick out of each other’s song choices. It’s weird: sometimes I almost enjoyed those afternoons more than the holidays themselves.