Twenty-eight minutes later and I feel the pull forward in my seat as the train brakes, slowing down, and it’s as if standing up is no more than a continuation of that forward motion. I hardly feel as though I’ve made the decision, it’s more like my body is getting up of its own accord, a Pavlovian response to the station name, and before I know it I’m standing on the platform.

I know the route to their house so well, it’s like walking there in a dream. I don’t have to think, I hardly have to feel. My feet carry me there, all on their own. The sun is bright, dazzling, but the air around me is still freezing cold. It’s colder than ever here, nearer the coast, and there’s a violent, whipping wind. I pull my coat around me as tightly as I can – there is more loose material than ever to wrap round. How long is it since I’ve been here? Three years, four? All this time, keeping away, the whole thing too painful, too awkward. The truth always sitting like a mean dog between us, and always wondering who it would bite first.

I follow the corners of the streets, turning left, right, then left again. I’m almost there. The roads look just the way I remember them. Nothing here seems to have changed. I come up the back way, approaching the house from the rear. There’s a fence at the end of their garden: a green picket fence, the paint shiny. It looks as if it was painted just days ago. I bet they get it painted every few months. Keeping up appearances. The recycling bin is out on the pavement. Wednesday. Bin day, I remember. There’s so much I remember about living here.

And then, over the fence, I see him. My dad.

He looks so much older than I recall. Maybe something has changed after all.

He’s bent over, levering at the hard lawn turf with a spade, trying to dig out a clump of weeds. Behind him, on the washing line, great white sheets crack and flap. My father’s hair blows sideways across his head, revealing the baldness underneath. He hasn’t seen me; he’s facing away. I put my hand on the fence, the sharp post digging into my palm.

‘Dad,’ I call, into the wind. ‘Dad.’

He straightens up. Sees me. All kinds of emotions ripple over his face. Surprise, at me standing there. Shock, perhaps, at how thin I am. And happiness. Happiness, above all, to see me.