‘I go to his, usually,’ she starts, quietly.

I wouldn’t have noticed before, when David was about. I didn’t come around that many evenings anyway. And David wouldn’t have noticed either. He’d have just thought she was going down the bingo. Or he’d have been at Michelle’s. But since he died, there’ve been times she’s encouraged me to leave because she’s going out, but doesn’t want a lift. And there are all the times she hasn’t answered her phone. The times I can’t get hold of her to say goodnight or don’t get a response when I text her in the morning. Like Monday. All those times she had something on and she didn’t dare admit it.

‘What did David think?’

‘Rhys, don’t do this.’

‘What? Don’t do what?’

‘Don’t blame me. Don’t make me feel that this contributed. You know how bad he was, you know what those last few months were like.’

And I do. I know because I sat with him in our van, listening to him get angry about his life. About the state of it. About every nitty detail that he was picking apart. I was the one he punched when the hurt got too much and he didn’t know where else to vent. I was the one who hid my own truth, my own pain and challenges, because his seemed bigger. I was the one who tried to get him back on track, give him a job, encourage him to talk to me, to Michelle. Anything to get him through it. I was the one who saw how much hurt searching for a past left behind could cause. And I was the one who knew exactly how he felt.

‘He’s been a real support. Through all of this,’ she said. ‘I can talk to him. I can cry with him.’

‘Does he come here?’ I ask.

‘Sometimes,’ she says, quietly. I look down at our David’s chair, occasionally out of place, the pouffe she kicked away when I arrived today. I bite my cheek. ‘He’s very respectful, Rhys. Doesn’t try to take over.’

‘That’s good of him.’

‘He wouldn’t dream of just wandering in, and…’ She stops, letting her eyes fall to David’s chair. She picks at the thinning fabric of the upholstery. It’s David’s chair.

I wonder how often he’s sat here.

‘I need you to be happy for me, Rhys. I’m allowed to be happy.’ She coughs a little, sniffs and searches the ceiling. ‘Losing your brother broke my heart, and nothing will ever fix that. Nothing. But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped living.’

Her eyes are full of tears, but she’s holding back. She’s fighting her corner and being brave and strong like she’s always been.

‘Rhys…’

But I can’t take it. I head into the hall, pulling my boots on, stumbling into the radiator as I lose my balance.

‘Please, Rhys,’ she shouts through from the lounge. I open the front door, holding on to the handle in case I can summon the strength to say something, anything in response. To go back to her. To stop being a spoiled brat. But as I slam it behind me, running to the car, I realise I’ve summoned nothing – except the feeling that I’ve just monumentally let her down.