He zaps me back. I walk to the door, close it gently behind me.

My father is still standing with his back to the sink, tensed.

‘Sonya, will you please join me in some tea?’

I ignore him as I pour more wine into my glass. Need to knock the edges, though not the lights, off. Just the right dose: I’ll be careful, I’ll count.

Tommy shouts, ‘Yaya, will you come kiss me goodnight?’ I’m not capable of going back in there right now, not while my father’s here, knowing that any display of emotion would be taken as proof of my intemperance, my instability. ‘In a minute, ok?’ I sing-shout into the bedroom. I can feel my father’s eyes on me.

‘What? What are you looking at? Two years of no contact, not even your grandson’s birthday.’

‘You stand to lose Tommy if you don’t get this under control.’

‘You stand to lose me for real, for ever this time. I’d divorce you if I could.’

‘Mrs O’Malley has notified the guards.’

‘Seriously? Do you not think she might just be a crackpot? It’s disturbing, the level of interest she displays in my life.’

My father switches the kettle back on and as he’s waiting for it to boil he opens the fridge. ‘Jesus.’

‘Did I give you permission to go rummaging in my cupboards, my fridge?’

‘There’s nothing there.’

‘As I say, a bit of a cash-flow problem.’

‘Can you hear yourself, Sonya?’ He stares pointedly at the wine bottle. ‘How much do they cost?’

‘None of your business.’ Thirteen years old, hormones devouring my reason.

‘Your voice… It’s not even yours.’

The kettle boils, the steam rising towards the damp, mildewed ceiling. I watch the vapour dissolve into the cracks. I notice a large one, running the whole width of the room. Maybe the ceiling will fall on our heads and the whole matter will be settled. He pours the scalding water on the tea bag, tops it up with a dash of cold and sips warily, like he’s doing penance by the very act of swallowing anything from this rat’s lair. I open the back door and lean against it, inhaling the night air, which contains traces of barbecue smoke from gardens on either side, and a damp-earth smell mixed with something decaying, rotten. It’s been weeks since I put the bins out.

‘Sonya, you’re simply not coping.’

‘And where have you been? Maybe if I’d had just a little support I’d be coping better than I am.’

‘Sonya, you have a problem with alcohol.’

How dare he waltz, jive, shimmy, slink – no, shove – his way in here after all this time, with his disdain and his arrogance, telling me what I am, who I am, what kind of a mother I am. My love for Tommy is bigger than anything I’ve ever felt before, bigger than any love he ever showed me.

‘It’s in the family, Sonya.’ He looks like he’s struggling to say something.