And then, one Christmas, while I was jumping on their bed, I knocked the ticket off the wall.

How people topple from buildings in films…in slow motion…that’s how the ticket fell. And, on the carpet, behind cracked glass, it didn’t look magical anymore, just dead. I cried a lot that Christmas.

That was the last day I ever saw the ticket on the wall and the last time I thanked Fate for my parents meeting.

When Dad had gone and Mum was putting his stuff in boxes, I watched her find the ticket and stare at it and cry. I don’t know where it is, now. But, sometimes, I wonder if they’d still be together if I hadn’t smashed the frame. It’s stupid, I know. But that was the start of all the shit. And something was the reason, so why not me?

I was four when Dad left. I know divorce works differently for different people, but, for him, when he said goodbye, he meant it. He sends cards when he remembers and money when he feels guilty. But I haven’t seen him in twelve years.

Mum replaced him with arseholes and bruises and tears and, eventually, with Jay.

14

No one was home when my package arrived, so I have to collect it from our neighbor after school.

When Mrs. Hawkins answers her door, she’s bent over, a stick in one hand and an alarm hanging round her neck. She looks at least eighty, and I feel guilty for making her move.

The package is propped in her hallway, and I watch her slowly pick it up and pass it to me.

“I’m sorry for bothering you,” I say, then again, louder, when she points at her ear.

“No bother,” she replies. “I’m always here.”

She’s breathing hard, one hand resting against the wall, so I thank her and say goodbye, because she needs to sit down and I need to get back to my room.

First, I get the screwdrivers from under the kitchen sink, then I unpack the box and spread the instructions on my bed. I’ve never done DIY before, but this is different. I need to know if a lock fits the holes in my door, so I bought one.

I think back to Mum patching over the holes caused by men’s anger. After Dad, she learned to repair plaster and fix door frames. Her DIY wasn’t building new things; it was rescuing what others destroyed. If you looked close enough, you could see the cracks in us as well, glued together like the bits of broken furniture.

And now we’re here, safe in a house where Amy may have been in danger.