He is small in that bed of his. So small that for the briefest of moments, I question if he is there at all. I look behind me, half expecting to see him come out of the bathroom larger than life, as imposing as he ever was. Tall, sturdy, full of bravado and his own self-importance.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, his new shape becomes more apparent. Illness has shrivelled him. He’s curled on his left-hand side, his duvet and blankets folded up to his chin. The cancer has carved hollows in his face. His skin sags limply over his bones, grey, thin, wrinkled. His hair is now more salt than pepper.

I step forwards. Slowly. Quietly. As if he might jump up at any moment to shock and surprise me. He doesn’t shift. I contemplate leaving. I could close the door. Lie to Stella that I’ve spoken to him and we have nothing more to say to each other.

But I can’t lie to Stella. I don’t want to. It’s not what we’re about. She knows almost everything about me.

He shifts, just a little, a loud sigh accompanying the movement followed by a small groan of pain. My heart quickens. I should let him know I’m here, but what do I say? Do I say ‘Daddy’, or ‘Joe’, or ‘You bastard’?

I feel tears prick at my eyes. I have to hold in a low groan of pain myself. I’m not sure who I want to cry for most right now. Him, or the little girl I was, who was so hurt all those years ago.

‘Dad,’ I say softly. ‘It’s Ciara.’

He should know, of course. I’m the only person who has ever called him ‘Dad’. Despite their many years together, Heidi has never given him that title. He stirs. I can almost hear his bones creak as he does so. He’s still a relatively young man, only in his early sixties, but the way in which he tries to pull himself to sitting in his bed is more fitting to a man much older. I wince at the sight of him – the thinness of his hands as he reaches out to lift his glasses from the bedside table and put them on.

‘Ciara?’ he mutters. ‘Open those curtains. Let me see you.’

I fall into the role of dutiful daughter quickly, to my annoyance, and pull open the curtains. Not that it makes much difference. The gloom outside is such that the light barely lifts in the bedroom. I reach over and switch on the bedside lamp instead.

Then I sit at the bottom of the bed. Far enough away that he cannot touch me. I have drawn my lines. I have to. Self-preservation is everything.

‘I didn’t know if you would come,’ he says, his hand shaking as he reaches for a glass of water from the bedside table.

I lift it and hand it to him, watching him take a few sips before I take it from him again.