‘Of course,’ Caitlin said, rubbing my leg before she went to get my phone from my bag.

The doctor told me to stay home and rest for the rest of the week, and avoid looking at screens or reading until my brain healed. She said that focusing on screens and text might slow down my recovery and cause headaches. It didn’t leave me with much to do. Caitlin booked time off work and although she took my phone away from me for most of the day, she happily brought stacks of yummy food and hot cocoa to my room and even read out loud some of a novel to me.

She didn’t press me about Mum or anything like that. She was pretty cool.

I ended up getting so bored though that I even listened to the recording of the instrumental track of ‘Time After Time’. As I listened to it with the volume right down low, I thought about the lyrics, and where I needed to come in with the singing. I even imagined myself on stage, what I’d dress up in, and looking out to the audience as I sang, nailing every note.

When Caitlin could tell that I was feeling a whole lot better, she asked me to think about something I might want to do with her and Dad, like visiting the Botanic Gardens or going on a drive somewhere. By that point my body and brain were feeling completely fine. I said, ‘I think I just need a long walk somewhere.’

‘Are you feeling like you need to move?’

‘Yes.’

‘How about I show you some light yoga stretches?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, thinking it might actually be a good thing.

Hours before Dad’s arrival back home, I asked Caitlin again, ‘Is Dad angry?’

She kind of grimaced. ‘He’s not happy with your mum and the position you were put in, but he’s not angry with you, Phoebe.’

‘He’s not even angry with me for not telling him that Mum lost her licence?’

‘She what?!’ Caitlin said, her face contorting.

‘She lost her licence,’ I repeated as I simultaneously realised that Caitlin didn’t know this when I thought she had.

‘When?’

I looked at the ceiling, unable to believe that I’d accidentally confessed. I assumed that Caitlin and Dad would have worked it out.

‘It’s okay, Phoebe, you can tell me. It’s not your fault.’

I looked back at her. ‘I think it was a month or so ago that I found out. She told me not to tell Dad.’

‘Well, he doesn’t know. What do you think: should we tell him about this?’

And I responded nervously, ‘Only if he doesn’t yell at me.’