‘I’m sorry, I’m joking.’ I realize I’m not joking. ‘But I do think we’ll be fine for wraps, and I promise not to eat anything ever again unless I’ve checked with you first. I love you, Mum. Thank you for looking after us so well.’

And she really does look after us well. Even if it occasionally causes more pain than pleasure.

Fred rearranges the newspaper he’s reading, and I take that as a sign that he’s relaxing back to normal, seeing that trouble has passed. At least for now.

‘Can I help you make the stuffing?’

Fred jumps up from where he’s sitting.

‘Bea, I need you actually. The stuffing will have to wait.’

He drags me out of the room and I grab my wine on the way out. I have my priorities.

‘Don’t make me repeat my actions from Christmas five years ago.’

That was a particularly bad year. We never settled into a routine, so Fred had to text me every time I wanted to make a cup of tea to let me know when the kitchen was safe to enter. I spent a lot of time alone that Christmas. Especially after the texting system failed, leading to a particularly bad mix-up regarding the leftover veg. Fred resorted to locking me into the study and only let me out when Mum wasn’t in the house.

‘But I didn’t know! It’s not my fault!’

‘Don’t eat anything unless she gives it to you.’

‘But what if I’m hungry?’

‘It’s not worth it.’

‘So I’m meant to starve?’

‘You are not going to starve.’

‘Are you calling me fat?’

Once upon a time, when we were a lot younger than we are now, Fred called me fat. It really upset me. I went on a very strict diet for about two months, lost a load of weight (that I put back on quite quickly when I realized I loved food) and cried a lot. Since then, I bring it up every now and then to make him feel bad.

‘Come here, you idiot.’

He envelops me in a bear hug. I don’t know what it is about a hug from your brother, but they make you feel so safe. I feel bad for anyone who hasn’t had the opportunity to experience this.

‘Thanks for always looking out for me.’ My words are muffled. The hug is lovely, but he’s also restricting the amount of air I can get into my lungs.

‘You OK, sis?’ He releases me a bit, but apart from the fact I can now breathe slightly better, I don’t like the distance. I smoosh back in and make him hug me for a while longer.

‘I’m fine.’ And I am fine. Finally my work is going in a good direction, my cards are working, things are back on track with Mia. It’s ungrateful to want more. To want Peter.

I subtly dry my eyes, hoping no tear patch is visible when I do eventually pull away.