“Sorry,” he says. “But in my defense I should never have been privy to the secret. You know I’m terrible at keeping them.”

“It’s OK, Dad.” I tiptoe to kiss the small patch of cheek that is visible through his huge gray beard. “I’m not very good with surprises, anyway,” I whisper. “So I’m glad you warned me.”

“Phew.” He smiles.

I almost break down at the sight of him, my dad. My lovely, dependable, lovable dad. Wearing his faded, well-worn jeans with the hole in one knee that bugs the hell out of my mother (“They’re comfortable!” he protests when she tells him to get rid of them. “Why would I want to go through the hassle of breaking in a new pair?”). I want to wrap my arms around his generous belly and hold on for dear life. But I can’t. He’d know immediately that something is wrong, and I’ve made the decision not to tell them, not tonight, anyway. I don’t see why I should ruin this day for anyone else.

“I see you still haven’t found your razor,” I say drily, ruffling his whiskers.

“No, and I’m not planning to. These keep my face warm.”

“But you’d look so much younger without them.”

“Why do I need to look young? It’s not like I’m out trying to find a new woman. Your mother is quite enough.”

He looks fondly across the room to where my mother is reveling in the role of hostess, passing around a platter of crackers with Camembert cheese and other toppings she’s no doubt spent a fortune on. My parents are as in love with each other now as they were on their wedding day twenty-nine years ago. Growing up, my friends thought they were cute. I thought they were embarrassing beyond belief, especially when they made out in public. Now I am glad they have each other to lean on. They are going to need that support after I am gone.

“Oh, yes, happy birthday,” my father says. “Your mother has your present waiting in the kitchen.”

“It’s not a stripper, is it?”

He chokes on the mouthful of beer he’s just taken. “No,” he finally manages to splutter out. “No, I think you’re safe.”

My mother has a rather unorthodox approach to gift-giving. For my sixteenth, while my friends were receiving beautiful bespoke pieces of jewelry with their initials engraved on the back, my mother gave me a gift certificate for a tattoo and a packet of condoms.

“Go forth and enjoy,” she said proudly when I unwrapped them. I’ll admit the condoms eventually came in useful, but the gift certificate expired unused.

I spend the next hour working my way around the room, thanking and making small talk with the people who have turned up to help celebrate my twenty-eighth birthday. The lounge is beautifully and tastefully decorated, hung with colorful lanterns and candles in jars. A food table is set up by the kitchen and is heaving under the weight of Mum’s wisdom acquired from many years’ trialing recipes. She has surpassed herself with the guest list, and there are people I haven’t seen in years, including, oddly, my seventh-form geography teacher.