Bonnie is playing happily alone, kicking leaves and running in circles around a tree. I sit next to the man. He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me being on the bench now that he has cleaned it. His hands are clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees. He is looking out into the park, those memories replaying for him again. As if stumbling on a particular moment, he smiles to himself. It brings him out of his trance and he notices me beside him.

‘Your daughter?’ he asks, pointing towards her.

‘Yes. Her name is Bonnie,’ I tell him.

‘That’s a beautiful name.’

‘Thank you.’ I don’t tell him I regret it, he doesn’t need to know. ‘I’ve seen you here before,’ I say. He could shut this conversation down if he wants to, I almost certainly would.

‘Yes, I’m here every day.’ He turns to acknowledge the plaque. ‘This bench is dedicated to my daughter, Verity. She died when she was seven. We used to come here all the time.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Yeah. Thank you.’

We sit for a few moments and watch Bonnie. Her sweet, innocent energy captivating us both.

‘How old is she?’ he asks me.

‘Three and a half.’

‘Ah, that was my favourite age.’

I have a feeling that I could have said Bonnie was any number of years, and that this man would have said it was his favourite age. But if anyone has the right to romanticise about parenting, it is him.

‘Lovely that you’re with her during the week. My wife insisted Verity went to a nursery even though she didn’t work. Then she went to school. If I could go back I’d quit my job and be a house husband, but you never think like that when they’re alive.’

‘I guess you don’t,’ I say, choosing not to tell him the truth: that I spend very little time with Bonnie, and that I am finding these few days of having no childcare incredibly challenging.

‘I have a bench dedicated to my dad in Cornwall,’ I say, wanting him to know I have a little understanding of grief. ‘He died when I was a teenager. I know we’re designed to outlive our parents, and I’m not comparing what happened to me to what happened to you, but it’s nice to have a place to go to remember him because his death really tore me apart.’

‘This bench is a vital part of my survival. We spread some ashes here too. I’m as close to her as I could possibly get when I sit on this bench. Do you get to your dad’s bench very often?’

‘No. No, unfortunately my mother and I don’t get along and trips to Cornwall have become quite rare.’