‘Dad,’ I say, jumping to my feet, hoping to head him off.

It’s too late.

‘This is delicious,’ he says, his mouth full, sputtering out crumbs.

Our father puts a large chocolate gateau in the middle of the table. It’s covered in a thick layer of buttercream and decorated with Smarties; a piece has been chopped out.

There’s a beat of silence, thick as treacle, and then Lotte says, ‘Wow, look at that cake! Can I have some too?’

Amy drops onto a chair and covers her eyes with her hands.

Something inside me that’s been coiled tightly all week snaps.

‘What the hell is the matter with you, Dad? It’s bad enough that you never cared about your own children, but do you have to fuck up Ruby-May’s anniversary?’

The lines across Dad’s forehead deepen and, as he stares at the cake, shame and guilt suffuse his features.

‘Oh, darling,’ he says to Amy, who is crying silently, ‘I’m so sorry. It’s Ruby-May’s cake, isn’t it?’

Chloe leans forward and says, ‘Did you even remember that she died? It’s not her birthday cake, you know.’

I’m stunned at Chloe’s hurtfulness. Where the hell did she learn to speak to her grandfather like that?

‘Shut up,’ I shout. I bang on the table with my fist. ‘Shut up, shut up!’

Amy looks as if she’s about to faint. Luca takes Lotte and Theo’s hands and leads them outside. Matt crouches by his wife and cradles her in his arms. Does Dad really not remember? Has his memory got that bad?

‘Don’t you understand?’ I yell. ‘She’s dead. You killed her! You fucking killed her!’

And I watch as his face caves in on itself. For a moment I’m victorious. I’ve stood up to my father for the first time in my life. I’m glad he’s suffering. Bethany strides over and slaps me across the face. My teeth clatter together and my head cracks back.

‘How dare you speak to him like that! It was not his fault.’

Dad buckles at the knees and sinks into an armchair. If I let it, the pain that is waiting will cripple me. Of course it’s not my father’s fault. I know that. I’m mad with grief about Ruby-May, angry with my father for driving my mother away, furious with my sister for almost killing me and then, later, leaving me on my own with my emotionally absent, adulterous and semi-alcoholic father. I remember the hospital appointment she’s fabricated.

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘It’s not his fault, is it? You asked him to look after Ruby-May. A two-year-old child. You left her in his care. It’s your fault.’

‘Nick,’ she says quietly, ‘none of us realized he was suffering from dementia.’