‘After you were born, I was convinced we were going to stuff you up.’

I bit my lip. ‘This isn’t your fault, Dad.’

He gestured at the stack of plates. I picked up another one. ‘I worried about everything. I read all the books—you know, they all contradict each other. Some said to let you sleep whenever. Some to wake you up every hour. Some to, you know—’ he hesitated, not sure he could say the word ‘—breastfeed.’

I smiled.

‘I just worried a lot. I worried we were going to overdress you, and you’d get sick. I worried that if you didn’t have a feed, there was something wrong. I worried that your mum would get distracted walking you and the pram would roll off …’ He shook his head as he studied the dishwasher. ‘She used to joke that I wanted to wrap you in bubble wrap.’

Another plate. A part of me wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t really funny.

‘Why not? I’d ask. It’d keep you safe. A bit of a suffocation hazard, though.’

I did laugh then, softly. He didn’t seem to mind.

‘Sometimes it got a bit worse than worrying, you know? I’d have these nightmares about something happening to you. Your mum hated it. She thought it was because I didn’t trust her.’

A familiar tightness spread through my chest. I handed him the last plate, turned off the tap.

‘I did. Trust her, I mean. It was just … I worried a lot. I don’t know. They didn’t call it anxiety then. And every time we took you for a check-up they asked your mum how she was feeling, but you know her, she can handle anything. She was fine. The best mum. It was me who …’

I looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

He finished packing the dishwasher, and went back to his spot against the bench. ‘As you got bigger, it got easier. You’d bounce. You fell over, but you bounced. You scraped your knee, it got better. I got used to you bouncing.’ He paused, thinking. ‘And Jack—he was different, or maybe I’d just got the hang of it by then.’

I laughed, remembering the number of times I’d whined at them as a teenager. How come he’s allowed? You never used to let me.

‘But you got older, and I noticed it sometimes.’ He frowned. ‘You were always careful.’

Careful.

‘Always trying. You worked hard at school and uni and everything, but you never seemed …’

I blinked, felt that too-familiar heat behind my eyes.

‘Happy. Not really.’ He shook his head. ‘You weren’t unhappy, I don’t think. But it felt like you were always working, you know? Always holding back.’

The words stung. I locked my fingers together, looking at them through tears.