‘Just in time, Clem!’ Mum says with a smile.

I watch Dad lift the roast from the oven. He nods to Mum and she dashes in to put the big wooden board down so he doesn’t have to put the hot tray on the bench. Normally that’s my job.

‘Did you go for a run?’ Dad asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ve probably got time for a shower. If you’re quick.’ He’s being nice, but it makes me feel worse – like he’s trying to get me out of the way.

‘Nah, it’s okay.’

‘Do you mind if I add a bit more vinegar?’ Mum asks him, tasting the dressing.

‘Go for it.’

She starts shaking the jar and the dressing foams up inside. Dad doesn’t usually like helpers on his side of the bench. Says it’s all too squishy. So why is she in there now, and I’m out here? I watch her pour the dressing over the salad and spy big chunks of purple dotted through the green. ‘Is that beetroot?’

Mum’s eyes fix on mine. She has more freckles than she did before the fire. I’ve always liked them, but today they’re just another unwanted reminder that we really are related.

‘Yeah,’ she says, looking down.

I glance at Dad. From his expression, I can tell his brain is trying to catch up. ‘Oh, I forgot to let you know – Clem doesn’t eat beetroot.’

‘Since when?’ Mum says.

I shrug. ‘Last year.’

Actually, I’ve never really liked beetroot. Mum used to make this chocolate and beetroot cake when I was little. She thought she was disguising the vegetable, but I could always tell it was in there because the cake sort of smelt like dirt.

I watch Mum start to pick the beetroot out of the salad, her fingers staining with each piece she touches. I try to roll my shoulders back to release whatever feeling is growing there, but there’s a sharp wedge down my back that I can’t let go of. I look across to see Dad watching me, waiting to see if I’ll do the right thing and tell her not to bother. This is his fault. He forgot. It’s not Mum’s.

‘Don’t worry. I can pick it out.’ My words are quiet, but Mum stops pulling the pieces out and pops the one square of beetroot she’s holding into her mouth. She tries a smile, but I step out of the way before it can reach me.

‘Can you set the table, honey?’ Dad nods towards a pile of plates on the bench.

I’m impressed he’s still calling me ‘honey’; the way he’s savaging the chicken suggests he doesn’t feel so kindly towards me. Don’t worry, Dad, I think. The feeling is mutual.