Tommy looks at me, troubled. We never have visitors.

‘Hello, Sonya,’ the man says.

‘It’s late.’

He doesn’t move. ‘I think it would be better if we stepped inside?’ His voice is caught way back in his throat. He looks around to check no one is listening. Still worried about the neighbours; I know better than to give voice to this provocation. ‘Do you know how late it is, Sonya? Way past the boy’s bedtime.’

What does he know about Tommy’s bedtime, seeing as he hasn’t been anywhere near us for almost two years?

‘Where have you been?’ I manage.

‘You told me not to come.’

You should know me better than that. If not you, then who? My thoughts swirl about, not being spoken aloud, and I have to lean against the wall, dizzy from the effort of containing them.

‘Are you ok, Sonya?’

‘Fine.’ I try and fail to crank up my megawatt smile.

‘Are you going to invite me in?’

‘Now isn’t a good time. Tommy needs to get to bed.’

He nods, but still he doesn’t move. ‘I need to speak to you, Sonya.’

These words sound like a portent and raise the spiky issue of when I might get to my nightly fix. My hands are actively shaking; it’s been some hours now and my mind is overtaken with an image of my silky liquid soother. My beautiful respite.

‘Strange-looking animal.’

Herbie growls in response.

‘He doesn’t like that,’ I say, managing a half-smile that expresses itself more like a smirk.

‘I’m coming in, Sonya. I didn’t drive over here for nothing.’

As if driving ten kilometres or so to see his only daughter is such a sacrifice. He surely didn’t let Lara know he was coming. Lara would have been instrumental in keeping him away from me, to protect him from me after the last time. Shame constricts my airways as shards of memories lodge themselves in my throat: me losing it, screaming, hitting out in impotent rage. But Tommy? I can’t square any of it with the abandonment of his only grandchild. My body reacts, coils in on itself and hardens. Go away, I will him silently, go away, go away. And in this moment I mean it, although in the next I could just as easily be choked by the sight of his back again. We’ve always played this push-me-pull-you game. It might have been easier if he had passed away, I often think, then my grief would be justified and finite and ‘normal’. As it is, I mourn his loss just as forcefully when he’s standing right in front of me.

‘Now isn’t a good time.’ I try to keep my voice reasonable, adult. ‘Come on, Tommy, time for bed.’

Footsteps follow us up the path.

‘Yaya, that man is coming.’

‘That man is your grandad,’ I snap. ‘Say, “Night-night, Grandad.”’

We’re at the door now and I’m trying to tug Herbie in by the collar – he’s rigid and the hair on his back is doing that punk thing – when I feel my father’s arm knock the keys from my hand. He brushes past us into the hall. The moment is so unexpected and strangely violent that I’m stunned into silence. Herbie fills it with his growling.