But then, abruptly, the picture in my head goes from glorious technicolour to grainy black and white, as the light and joy is replaced by darkness and fear. My father’s twisted face suddenly comes into view, his once soft eyes have turned into black pools, and his disarming smile has been replaced by gnarled lips pulled back, baring his teeth.

I’d ask Mom what had happened to turn him into the monster he became, but she would always try to defend him.

‘He’s got a lot going on right now,’ she’d say, as she knelt beside my bed and wrapped my hands in hers. ‘He just needs a little space to work things out and then he’ll be the dad you remember.’

‘Does he not love us any more?’ I’d asked.

‘Of course he does, pumpkin. He will always love you, no matter what. You’re his girls – nothing will ever change that.’

‘But I don’t like it when he hurts you,’ I’d say, lifting her long brown hair up from around her neck where, despite her attempts to conceal it with foundation, I would still see the yellowing bruise blotting her skin.

‘He doesn’t mean to,’ she’d said. ‘When he has a drink, he gets angry – with himself more than anyone else – and he just doesn’t know what to do with all that pent-up frustration.’

She’d lean in to kiss my forehead and the heady aroma of Elizabeth Arden’s Sunflowers perfume would permeate my nostrils as I fell asleep. It was the scent of safety; the promise that no matter how insecure I might feel some days, she would always be there to lift and protect me. Except she wasn’t. One year later, she was gone and the fragrance slowly faded after her.

‘Why did you have to go?’ I ask aloud, falling onto the bed with my head in my hands.

I used to expect her to answer with a bolt of lightning and a crash of thunder, but I’ve come to realize that she relays her messages in more subtle ways. It could be in a dream, where I can see her so vividly that I wake up crying, only to look at the bedside clock and see that it’s 3.22: her birthday. Or I’ll notice that a picture has been moved ever so slightly, or the robin that graces our garden sometimes will sit on the table outside the dining room window and just peer in.

None of which offer any definitive answers to the questions I’ve often posed, but it means that she’s around, and until now I’ve always believed that she wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

So how come I find myself here?

‘Who’s doing this, Mom?’ I ask out loud.