‘Okay,’ I say, instantly wishing I had the guts to say no.

‘Why don’t you sit down, instead of standing there and growing tall? You’re tall enough already.’

‘I’ll go get a chair,’ I say.

It might be a good idea to have one here anyway, for visitors. Not that there have been many, by all accounts. Despite his supposed status in the community, the house has been remarkably quiet according to Heidi. All those people who he holds court with, chats to in the street, in the library. They’re not really his friends, are they? Where are they now?

‘Sure, there’s no need for that,’ he says. ‘You can sit at the bottom of the bed.’

I hesitate. I remind myself that I’m an adult now and I have my own voice.

‘I’d rather just get a chair,’ I say, clenching my fists tightly to try to stop myself from shaking. Without giving him the chance to argue further, I go and get a chair from the spare room, place it just far enough to the right of his bed that he can’t reach it, and sit down. I’ve left the bedroom door open. I can leave at any time I want, I tell myself.

I watch and listen as he slurps spoonfuls of his soup into his mouth while he tries to make small talk. It’s all inconsequential babble that infuriates me. He wants me here, he says, but he doesn’t seem to have any intention of saying the things I need him to say.

As soon as he takes his final mouthful and washes it down with the last of his milk, I lift the tray from him and walk from the room, not looking back.

‘Would you not just stay another few minutes?’ I hear him ask, but this time I find my voice.

‘No. I’ve done what you asked. I have to leave now.’ I don’t wait to listen to any response – I just get down the stairs and out of the house as quickly as I can.

Chapter Eleven

Heidi

Now

Joe’s not getting better. Not the way the doctor’s hoped, anyway. I mean, of course, we know that ultimately he is going to die. But they did expect him to recover from his surgery well enough to enjoy some sort of quality of life, for some amount of time.

He’s still confined to his bed, six days after coming home from hospital. He doesn’t even want to try to manage the stairs, to sit in the living room and maybe watch some TV. He complains he is in pain. He complains he feels sick. He complains he is too tired. He complains he can’t sleep. He complains his cup of tea is too hot. Or too milky. Or he wanted coffee instead. He complains the room is too stuffy. Or it’s too cold.

It’s a constant barrage of complaints, which I feel I have to swallow down. Because he’s sick. Because he’s dying.