His stubbly face grazes my chin as he leans in to peck me on the cheek. He’s called me Pumpkin for as long as I can remember. I don’t mind it like I used to, when I was a bolshie teenager. Bolshier than most, probably, because I couldn’t rebel like I wanted to. Couldn’t stay out late and get drunk in case I had a seizure and put myself at risk. Some of the friends I’ve met in online support groups tell me they did all sorts of things at that age. Refused to listen to their parents and their doctors. But I was never courageous enough for all that.

“By the way,” Dad says, “did Ross sort that dripping tap out? Only I’ve brought my tools just in case.”

Good old Dad. Ever the handyman. Ross might be able to diagnose a case of pleurisy or treat a urinary-tract infection, but I’ve already worked out that when it comes to asking him to fix anything on the domestic front, I might as well be asking him to fly a rocket to Mars.

—

Dad drives us to Blackheath Village, although it’s hardly a village. I guess it was once, a long time ago. It does have a small-town feel to it, though, with its little shops and eateries, its farmers’ market on a Sunday, and the green, open space of the heath. Before moving to London, I used to think of it as one place—a huge, sprawling city—when really it’s hundreds of different neighborhoods, all bleeding into each other but unique in their own way. Blackheath is definitely posher than Charlton or Lewisham, for instance. I might be a newcomer to the area, but that much is obvious, and not just from the prices in estate agents’ windows.

Mario’s is the perfect blend of style and informality. Crisp white tablecloths and immaculate waiting staff, but a relaxed, café-type atmosphere. Mum and I both have a small glass of white wine while Dad drinks sparkling water. I savor every sip. Alcohol can be a trigger for my seizures, along with caffeine and flashing lights, not to mention stress and tiredness, so knowing I can only have the occasional glass makes me appreciate it so much more. I’m enjoying the taste of it on my tongue when Mum says:

“That box we’ve brought, love, it’s bound to stir up a few memories.”

Mum glances at Dad and I’m aware of him stiffening beside me. We all know what she’s referring to, and it’s something we just don’t do. At least, not till now.

Dad lays down his knife and fork and takes a long draft of water before speaking. “I said we shouldn’t bring it. We can always take it home again. Or straight to the tip.”