Scurrying back up the stairs, I sat on my bed and hugged my pillow to my chest while I listened to Dad moving around in the next bedroom, presumably packing the essentials.

When the front door slammed, Mum sought me out and told me her news. I feigned surprise, choosing not to add to her pain by telling her that I’d seen his reaction for myself. It must have taken a lot of restraint to speak with empathy as to why Dad had chosen to move on instead of painting him in his true colours.

He came back at the weekend and collected the rest of his belongings. He didn’t even say goodbye.

Mum put the house on the market and, four months later, with my university place deferred for a year, the two of us moved to the cottage in Little Sandby – a village ten minutes west of Whitsborough Bay – where we prepared for the arrival of my baby brother.

She tried to make excuses for my dad refusing to attend the scans. I hated keeping things from her so I confessed that I’d overheard the baby conversation and there was never any need to protect him – I knew exactly who he was and I wouldn’t think badly of her if she ever wanted to vent. Mum hugged me and admitted she should have left Dad years before. I agreed.

‘Why did you stay?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘Habit? Laziness? Too embarrassed to admit I’d made a mistake?’

‘Did you love him?’

‘I thought I did. I quickly realised I didn’t, but I was already pregnant with you. He was a good man. He was steady and reliable and he took charge. I needed those qualities in him back then but they stifled me as the years progressed. When you meet someone, Jemma, make sure he makes your heart sing and your tummy fizz. I never had that with your dad, or at least not after the first few dates.’

Life in Little Sandby without Dad was like a breath of fresh air. A new hairdo and a fresh style of clothes changed Mum’s physical appearance, but her whole personality seemed to change too. She was more relaxed, full of fun and laughter, and constantly singing.

Dad had always tried to control me: what I was wearing, who my friends were, when I did my homework, and how I should ‘get a proper job instead of playing with teddies all day like your mum’. I hadn’t realised how much he’d tried – and succeeded – to control Mum too. I don’t think she had either.

But now he was dead.

‘Are those hands washed?’ I asked Logan, who’d returned to his Lego by the time I got back downstairs.

‘You want to smell them?’