He was holding out a small box. She didn’t pay any attention to it so Dad opened it and showed her what was inside. I couldn’t see it exactly, but I thought it might be a bracelet. She picked it up and said thank you, but she was getting restless, I could see it in the way she was fidgeting. Dad could sense it too. His voice took on that enthusiastic primary school teacher tone I caught myself using sometimes. He picked up another box. A larger one.

“What do we have here?” he said, rattling it.

He pulled on the ribbon and ripped off the paper like a child on his birthday.

It was a black square picture frame, though I couldn’t see what was in it.

“I love it,” he said in the same kind of voice he used when I’d give him Father’s Day mugs or handmade cards, as though it was the best thing he’d ever got. He took Mum’s hand and kissed it. “You always know exactly what I want. Happy anniversary, love.”

I totally forgot it was their anniversary. It wasn’t the kind of thing I’d ever paid much attention to anyway. Mum smiled. I wanted her to do something. To reach out and hold his hand or lean over and kiss his cheek. She didn’t do either of those things. She got up and walked away, chattering about something completely unrelated. A sharp pain hit me in the chest and I had the overwhelming urge to try to reach in and dig it out because I couldn’t bear it.

Eyes blurry with tears, I walked as quick as I could back down the hall. When I saw Nora again I stopped her and swallowed hard.

“Did someone take my mum out shopping to get my dad a present?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, dear, that’s not really part of our job,” she said gently.

“She gave my dad an anniversary present. Where did she get it from?”

Nora smiled. “Well, if I remember this right, your dad got a present on his birthday a few months back too.”

When I looked confused, she whispered behind her hand like it was some kind of cute secret she was telling me.

“I think he buys them himself and then gives them to her, to give to him. It’s quite sweet.”

Dad always signed my birthday cards Love Mum and Dad. I thought it was something he did for me, out of habit or pity. I pictured him wandering the shops picking out gifts for himself from Mum, taking care to wrap them up and write cards because she would never want to miss a birthday or anniversary. He did it for her. Some sort of emptiness in me filled up and it hurt.