I added some salt to the omelette and ate up half of it with relish. Nibbling on a hunk of bread, I brewed a pot of tea and felt a sudden surge of contentment at its full, warm flavour. It was only then that it dawned on me that I had been frozen all day and had not eaten or drunk a thing.

After dinner, I took him in some food and tea.

He had stopped tossing and turning. The fever had subsided too. He ate silently and compliantly, chewing hard on every bite. He struggled, it seemed, to restrain that anger tinged with the fear that I might abandon him. For that reason, he kept silent.

“Do you remember, Dad” I said, delivering another spoonful to his mouth and watching his grinding teeth work through the food, “how you beat me, it was about fifteen years ago, because you couldn’t find your cup? You had got into your head that I’d broken it. You were drunk. Mum was at work. She worked for the whole family. Grandma was in her room. We were alone in the kitchen, you drove me into a corner and said nothing, as if you wanted to read in my eyes if I was lying. You pulled your hand back and it hovered as you waited for a flicker of recognition. I said nothing, and you smacked me right in the face with your open hand. I felt bad for you. Not for myself. No, because I really had broken it. Just to piss you off. It’s been so long that I’ve wanted to tell you.”

I had a knife in my hand.

I cut the Phenazepam in two. I swallowed one half, then placed my hand under my dad’s head and lifted it from the pillow. The knife was in my other hand. He didn’t resist. We froze like that for a few seconds. Then I put down the knife and picked up the pill. He opened his mouth, exposing darkened teeth and a swollen tongue. I threw in the pill and tipped in the tepid tea. He swallowed noisily and wheezed, grabbing my wrist and trying to control the flow. I poured until the teapot was empty and wiped his mouth. He fell back on the pillow.

“There you go, Dad. Good boy. I don’t bear any grudges.”

I put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

“Do you remember, every time you quarrelled with Mum, you would point at me and say: ‘Why the fuck d’you have this one? Is this even my daughter?!’ It was awful. It was just horrible. That’s it. I don’t think you were being serious. You trusted Mum. There was no distrusting her love, so you tried all the more to hurt her, because you were incapable of loving the way she loved. See Dad, you just don’t know how to love.”