“Quiet while I answer that,” I say. “I mean silent. Not a peep.” Lauren nods.

It’s the Chihuahua lady. The dog’s head pokes nervously out of her bag. Its eyes are glossy and wild.

“Sounds like someone’s playing hard,” she says. “Kids should be noisy, that’s what I say.”

“My daughter’s visiting,” I say. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I heard you had a daughter some years back,” the Chihuahua lady says. “Who told me? Now, that I can’t recall. But I remember hearing you had a daughter. I’d love to meet her. Neighbors should be friendly. I brought you some grapes. They’re healthy, but they’re sweet so everyone likes them. Even kids like grapes. They’re nature’s candy.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But I have to go now. She and I don’t get much time together. And you know, the place is a mess.”

“How are you doing, Ted?” she asks. “Really, how are you?”

“I’m good.”

“How is your mother? I wish she would write.”

“She’s good.”

“OK,” she says after about a minute. “I guess I’ll see you.”

“Hey, Dad!” Lauren shouts when the door is safely closed behind the Chihuahua lady. “Chile!”

“Santiago!” I bawl.

Lauren screams and rides away, darting and swerving around the furniture. She sings loudly as she pedals, a song she made up about woodlice, and if I were not a parent I would never have believed that a song about a woodlouse could make me feel such joy. But that’s what love does, it reaches right into you like a hand.

She stops suddenly, tires squeaking on the wooden boards.

“Stop following, Ted,” she says.

“But we’re playing a game.” My heart sinks. Here we go.

“I don’t want to play anymore. Go away, you’re annoying me.”

“Sorry, kitten,” I say. “I can’t. You might need me.”

“I don’t need you,” she says. “And I want to ride on my own.” Her voice rises. “I want to live in a house on my own, and eat on my own, and watch TV on my own, and never see anyone ever again. I want to go to Santiago, Chile.”

“I know,” I say. “But kids can’t do that on their own. An adult has to look after them.”

“One day I will,” she says.

“Now, kitten,” I say, as gently as I can. “You know that can’t ever happen.” I try to be as honest with her as possible.

“I hate you, Ted.” The words always feel the same, no matter how many times she says them: like being hit hard, at speed, from behind.

“Dad, not Ted,” I say. “And you don’t mean that.”

“I mean it,” she says, voice thin and quiet as a spider. “Hate you.”

“Shall we have some ice cream?” I sound guilty even to me.