‘I haven’t been sleeping well since I split from Pauline. Silver linings.’ He looked into his tea. ‘Meg, I know I haven’t been the best father to you. After Carrie died, it was … difficult with your mother. I know I’m not very good at talking about things.’

‘It’s okay.’ I swallowed. ‘I didn’t talk about things either. I should have told you and Mum what I said to Carrie that morning, instead of carrying it around inside me for twenty-five years.’ I remembered an exercise a therapist had made me do, where I’d imagined going back in time and telling my younger self that it wasn’t her fault. That Carrie had decided to kill herself, that she was actually saving herself from a huge amount of pain and anguish. That nothing a ten-year-old had said would have made any difference. It had helped, but not enough. ‘I guess I’ll always feel guilty,’ I said. ‘But it’s manageable these days.’

Dad cleared his throat. ‘It wasn’t your fault she killed herself. You do know that, don’t you?’

The shift in his tone triggered alarm bells. I knew there was more to this. ‘Did something else happen that day that I don’t know about?’ I said. ‘You need to tell me.’

Dad’s eyes widened and he shook his head rapidly. ‘No, of course not. But it was our fault so much more than yours. She told us she wanted to die and we didn’t listen. We were selfish. We didn’t want to lose a single day with her. We’re the ones who should feel guilty for making her go through that.’ He touched his eye. ‘For making her do it all on her own.’

He’d finally said that to me. After all these years. ‘We should help that charity,’ I said. ‘I can give you some of Gran’s money. Why do I need to own a house anyway?’

41

Meg – Present day

Friday

I was pursuing Hamlet through a busy city centre, people jostling and pushing me, Hamlet getting further and further away, me shouting in desperation.

I snapped my eyes open and waited for my breathing to slow, my heart to stop jumping in my chest.

It was still early but I got straight out of bed, slipped on my dressing gown, and padded downstairs to reassure myself that Hamlet was okay.

Dad was already in the kitchen, doing the crossword in a three-day-old copy of The Times. I smiled at him. ‘Where’s Hammy?’

‘Oh, I let him out. He was bashing his head against his flap. I thought he needed a pee.’

‘You let him out? Bloody hell, Dad, people are trying to kill him! He’s got a litter tray.’

‘They won’t try anything in the daytime, Meg.’

A spark of anger. ‘Why didn’t you just give that bloke a hundred quid anyway, Dad?’

‘What?’