I exhaust myself. I lie back on the sofa cushions, defeated, my head aching. Did I imagine it then? I’ve been through every folder, every email, and there’s nothing. So was my memory playing tricks on me? Did my guilty mind make the whole thing up? It seemed so clear and real to me, but there is no evidence anywhere in my account. My head is so heavy, pressed at an angle against the cushions. My eyes are so sore. It’s not even nine o’clock, but I’m completely worn out. My work mobile slips from my grasp as fatigue crashes into me, like a wave.

I must have only dropped off for a matter of minutes, but when my personal mobile rings, the jangle wakes me like a slap. It takes five, six rings for me to overcome the clumsiness of sleep and dig the phone out from the depths of my bag.

When I see who it is, I almost reject the call.

If I do that, though, he’ll only call back. I give it two more rings and then I answer. I make myself sound as reasonable as I can, rubbing the sleep from my eye with the side of my thumb and sitting myself upright against the sag of the sofa.

‘Hello? Jennifer?’

He always calls me Jennifer, my full name.

‘Hi, Dad.’

He’s calling to check on me, I know that. There’s a part of me that can’t help but feel grateful for it. I know he means to help; it’s just that nine times out of ten, it doesn’t help, it just dredges it all up. Everything from back then.

‘I just thought I’d give you a call.’ He always makes sure to sound so chipper. Mum won’t be there with him, I’m sure of that. She’ll be out, or upstairs, watching TV; it’s always Dad who rings, by himself. I made a note of the dates, once. It’s pretty regular: once every three months. Almost as if he sets himself a diary reminder.

‘So, how are the two of you getting on?’ he asks.

I feel like there’s something stuck in my throat and a headache in each of my eyes. Everything I’ve been through this last forty-eight hours comes welling up, in danger of spilling over, but if I were to talk to him properly, what would I say? How can I just blurt it out to him, this bizarre and horrible situation that I can hardly even make sense of myself? It’s been so long since we really talked, years and years since the last time I told him how I really felt. And yet, who else do I have to talk to, and who better to talk to but my own dad?