‘I don’t wanna hear it. Stop asking me how I’m doing.’ Troy began to raise his voice. ‘Stop asking me if there’s anything you can get me or do for me. Stop following me around like some lost puppy and, for the love of God, stop looking at me like I’m about to melt into a puddle. I’m not. You want to do something for me? Bring my mum back. If you can’t manage that, then stay the hell out of my way.’

That’s when I’d entered the room to stop the argument from escalating. Troy gave me a filthy look that had practically seared the hairs off my skin before storming out. Libby hung her head, fighting back tears.

‘Libby, give him time.’ I raised her chin so I could look her in the eyes. ‘Troy’s hurting. We all are. Just be patient, OK?’

She nodded.

After Mum’s funeral, Troy and Libby had taken a week’s break before they both started back at school. Nana Meggie said it was best to re-establish some kind of regular routine for them so we took her advice. But, over the weeks, Troy and I had grown apart, becoming more distant, and I didn’t know what to do about that.

I had hoped that my wedding a couple of weeks ago might’ve brightened Troy’s mood, but if anything it had the opposite effect. The only thing that had spoiled an otherwise near-perfect day was that my brother had chosen not to say a single spontaneous word to me. Not one. He was hurting and, by marrying Tobey, I had hurt him more.

As if hearing the direction of my thoughts, Troy walked into the kitchen, the phone in his hand taking all his attention. I watched him for a few moments, then said, ‘Hey, Troy. How’s my favourite brother?’

Troy stiffened, his demeanour clouding over. He turned on his heels, ready to leave the room.

‘Troy, please,’ I called after him, unexpectedly on the verge of tears. ‘Can we just talk? Please. It’s what Mum would’ve wanted.’

It was low bringing Mum into it, but I’d tried everything else. From the moment Tobey and I had exchanged rings at our wedding ceremony, Troy hadn’t said one word to me that hadn’t been strictly necessary. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a proper conversation. We were both grieving for Mum apart when we should’ve been together.

Troy spun round and launched in. ‘How could you, Callie? How could you marry that man?’

‘Troy, please—’

‘Callie, he’s no good. Everyone says so,’ Troy told me. ‘He only cares about himself and now he’s got everything he’s ever wanted – you, our house and respectability.’

‘Troy, which rag did you read that in?’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’