We get through customs in a minute—the terminal building’s nice and modern, not like the isolated backwater I imagined. A handful of people mingle around the baggage claim, waiting. It’s my first experience of America, of Americans and, of course, Alaskans. Is that a thing? Is there a name for the locals?

There are two Santa Claus look-alikes and a couple of hikers wearing fluorescent fleeces that scream, I don’t want to get lost in the woods! I see people picking up bags of skis and snowboards, and a small group of retirees following a guide holding a sign saying: Northern Lights. The room is an assortment of hoodies and woollen beanies of all shades and styles, beards and more beards.

Our bags arrive quickly and we walk towards our agreed meeting spot, the cruise-ship sign, up ahead.

My heart’s beating so fast I can almost hear the ambulance sirens rushing me to the hospital. Where is he? I look around, frantic. Not here. Images flash through my head—Melody and I waiting for hours to no avail. Trying to call him, but he doesn’t answer. With no address, how would I find him? Maybe he’s changed his mind and Mum was right. I imagine Melody checking us into a crummy hotel to wait for the next flight. Returning home, devastated.

‘Sky, over here!’ My fears disappear as I see a man rushing down the hallway towards us.

He matches the pictures he emailed: trimmed beard and smiling eyes. His pressed blue shirt is buttoned nearly to the top and his jeans are worn around the knee, revealing thermals. I guess he’s not bad looking. Mum obviously thought so, and Melody too. Gross.

‘Hi—’ I’m not sure what to call him; Dad is out of the question. Father? Too Jane Austen. Adam? Using his name may sound cold.

‘You made it,’ he says before I can decide. I’m surprised to hear his accent, straight out of Hollywood. I should have expected it—he’s American after all.

He manoeuvres around my wheelie bag and then trips awkwardly on my puffy coat draped over the handle and trailing on the floor. He regains his balance and envelops me in a hug. At first I feel stiff, but then relax. A gazillion things go through my head.

I’m in my father’s arms, finally, in the dream I dreamed as a little girl, my dad and me, father–daughter, as it’s meant to be. When Mum and I fought, I’d squeeze my eyes tight, trying to send him a message wherever he was. I only knew he was a fisherman, so my mind of course went to a boat to whisk me away. I’d imagine us together, our hair in the wind, faces glowing in the sun like a slow-mo TV ad for Father’s Day.