‘I wasn’t – I’m not saying I was blameless. It was an accident, a terrible accident. And the instant her car hit the tree, she was dead. There was nothing we could do.’ Before I can decide whether to tell him that Charlie was driving, drunk on beer I’d bought, that we were both asleep, before I can decide whether throwing my brother between my father and me is shameful and selfish, before I can think through whether that would make the slightest difference to my father’s rage and pain, before any of this mad mental dust can settle or form coherent thoughts, my father lurches forward and slaps me across the face. I had no idea a hit could hurt so much.

I run to the backyard. Where else can I go? I sit on the edge of the sandpit with my arms folded tight across the top of my knees, shaking, staring at the door and praying that Dad won’t yell at me or hit me again with the children nearby. I watch as Petey throws a bucketful of sand out of the sandpit and onto the grass, and waits for my usual admonishments. I hold out my arms. ‘Give me a hug.’ He shakes his head.

I try not to panic. I drop my head onto my folded arms, ignore my stinging cheek, stare at the ground through my legs and try to breathe. Just breathe. He’s not coming outside. If he was going to follow me he would have by now. I concentrate on the ants crawling across the sand in the triangle of space beneath me. I smell my coffee-scented breath and feel the sun burn through my shirt. Anything not to think.

I hear footsteps on the porch. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here. I may have even slept or passed out. It feels as though time has somehow moved on without me. I want to look up and see if the children are still in the sandpit – there’s no sign of them in my small range of vision – but if it’s Dad on the porch I don’t dare move.

‘Hey, hi everyone.’

‘Mark,’ I say in a sob and lift my head up.

‘Mummy’s sad,’ Sarah says. ‘Is dinner soon?’

‘Whoa,’ Mark says. ‘What’s going on?’ He pulls me up and shepherds me to the wooden bench near the barbecue, which is still close enough for the children to hear, so I point to the house. ‘Inside.’

‘Is this something you want John to hear?’

‘Is he still here?’

‘Where else would he be? Abby?’

We sit. He rubs my back the same way I rub Sarah’s back when she can’t sleep. I need his comfort, and I know once I tell him the truth he’ll take it away from me.

‘I don’t want to talk right now. And the kids are hungry, so –’

‘Why did you ask me if John was here? Did you have an argument?’ I should’ve known my deflection wouldn’t work. Mark won’t be denied information.