‘No, it’s not. Dad picked last time,’ Holly informs him. ‘And anyway, I’m older than you, so I get to choose.’

‘We’ll have half and half.’ I offer them a compromise, averting the inevitable squabbling as I grab up Josh’s abandoned sweater.

Mum comes in behind me to pull the children into a hug. ‘Bye, you two. Be good for your mum.’ She kisses them in turn, and I feel guilty, yet again. I wish I could let my guard down and let them stay over – I know Mum would love it – but I can’t.

I’m reminded why as Dad appears, heading straight for the whisky bottle.

I watch him fill a large tumbler, take a sip and top it up, and my stomach immediately recoils. He’ll have several more. If he goes out to his club, several more when he comes back. The bedroom stank of whisky that night. He stank of whisky. Closing my eyes, I see him reeling and stumbling. He wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell him Sarah wasn’t breathing properly. Beyond a certain point, he couldn’t even hear me. The smell of whisky was still there in the morning. No matter what he said, no matter what fictional story I corroborated, Mum must have known.

Downing his glass, my father watches Josh head towards the hall. ‘Don’t I get a hug?’ he asks him, and Josh immediately turns back to launch himself into his arms. ‘Bye, trooper.’ Squeezing him hard, Dad ruffles his hair before letting him go.

‘Bye, Grandad.’ Josh waves behind him as he scoots off to retrieve his trainers.

‘Holly?’ Dad glances after her.

‘Come on, Holly. Chop-chop.’ I allow my father a brief hug with Holly and then catch her by the arm and steer her to the door. ‘I want to get back in plenty of time to cook your dad something special tonight.’ I’m toying with the idea of wearing something special, too. The red dress I wore for our anniversary weekend in Paris, possibly. Jason said I looked sensational in it, adding that he couldn’t wait to get me out of it. I smile as I remember how mutual urgency overtook us and the location of our lovemaking dictated I keep the dress on.

‘Why?’ asks Josh, peering up through his Harry Potter specs from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the hall floor. Clearly, he’s figured out that stuffing his feet into trainers without unlacing them is not conducive to getting them on any quicker.

‘Because he’s been working very hard,’ I supply, shooting my father, who’s followed me out, a pointed look over my shoulder.

Mum sees us to the door, where I pause to give her a firm hug. ‘See you next week,’ I say, smiling and then kissing her cheek.

‘Bye, sweetheart,’ my father says behind me.