I nod. My father has been pouring me sherry since I turned eighteen. It started when sherry was the only alcoholic drink he kept in the house. Now his stash has expanded and diversified to include gin, vodka, brandy, whisky (Scotch), whiskey (Irish), Sambuca, port, and rum. But he still offers me sherry. Not “Would you like a drink?” Just “Sherry?”

When I can focus my thoughts enough, I speculate that he genuinely believes sherry to be my favourite drink. Or perhaps sherry is the only drink he considers appropriate for a woman of my age. Or perhaps he wants to keep his stash to himself, and chooses not to share it with me. I think this is the most likely option. My father is not miserly, precisely. Misers take as much pleasure from denying themselves expensive treats as they do from denying others. My father enjoys spending money on himself, but not on anyone else. As human failings go, it is not the worst.

His biggest fear is that my editing and proofreading work will dry up, and I will no longer be “keeping my head above water.” Then I might apply to him for funds, and common decency would force him to oblige. Every time I visit, I see him visibly relax when he confirms that my head is still above water.

He pours me a scant half-glass of sherry, and two fingers of Talisker malt for himself. The whisky makes a luxurious gurgling sound as it splashes into the crystal.

“So . . . my week. Very difficult. A real struggle. I tear my hair out every time I have to deal with the insurance company.” He mimes grabbing the wisps of hair at the side of his head and pulling them out by the roots.

I make a sympathetic noise. “Still? After all this time? What excuse are they using now?”

“They are disputing the value of the furniture. Your mother and I kept records of some of the antiques we bought, but not all. And most of the records we had disappeared in the fire. They are asking me to prove which tables were yellowwood, which kists were stinkwood, and so on. But I can’t.”

“I thought you kept papers like that in a safe deposit box in the bank?”

“Again, some, but not all. Some of the papers we kept in the house.”

He still sometimes says “we” as though my mother were alive. She has been dead for eight years. Breast cancer. She died two days after my twentieth birthday. Twenty is not the worst age at which to lose your mother. You are an adult. Independent. Making your own way in the world. (It felt like the worst age.)