The back door onto the deck is open when I arrive at Dad’s but there’s no one home. No dinner cooking, either, which is disappointing, because I’m starving. Outside, the deck creaks beneath my feet. A gust of wind reminds me that things can change course at any time. I look up at the clear blue sky and feel the sun’s warmth on my face. I wish you were here, Mom.

I can see her as I cross the yard, passing the overgrown plants that struggle to impress. I picture her kneeling on an old newspaper, wearing a floral skirt and yellow t-shirt, her dark hair tied back. ‘Hi sweetie,’ she says. ‘Do you want to help me plant some tomatoes? Her smile brighter than the sun, her blue eyes bigger than the sky.

No tomato planting today, or ever again. I continue on, heading for the shed which leans in against the back wall, the oak tree branches overhead stretching out across its roof as if it is trying to hug its old wooden friend. There’s a cross behind the shed, between the wall and the oak’s trunk, which Danny paints white every year. Why he wants to paint his dead dog’s marker every year is beyond me, but he can be weird like that, not caring if the decking is crumbling to pieces or that the front door hasn’t been touched up in years, yet the dog’s grave marker is kept pristine. Maybe if it had been my dog I’d feel differently, but I never had a dog, or knew Danny’s dog either. He died when I was a baby, when Dad was off fighting his war. I asked Mom about it once; what Danny’s dog was like, why he regularly painted the cross. But she didn’t answer. Something of interest had come on the TV and she upped the volume. I remember it well because it came as a bit of a shock, Mom ignoring me.

I’m almost at the shed when I hear the sound of someone crying. Oh God, it’s Dad. This must be where he goes to allow his pain to seep out. I don’t want to see him like this, weakened to tears, sadness in his heart. But a good daughter would do what she could to help, so I open the shed door, dragging the words from my mouth.

‘Dad?’ As my eyes adjust to the dim light I see him sitting on a bench, head in his hands. I lay my hand on his shoulder and gently squeeze. ‘Is everything okay, Dad?’

When he looks up his eyes are so red it’s like they’ve been dipped in wine.

‘It’s nothing, love,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I was just thinking about your mom, missing your mom.’