I grab the plates and the cutlery and place them as noisily as I can on the table, leaving enough space between the settings so I don’t have to risk bumping into either parents’ knees when we all sit down. Then I plonk down on my seat, trying to work out which angle to position my chair so I don’t have to stare across the table at them. I’ve just about got it sorted when they approach, carrying the dinner, and Mum manoeuvres herself so she is closer than I’d like.

She leans into me and says quietly, ‘I’ll sleep out here with your dad. You keep your room, Clem.’

Dad throws me a sharp look. ‘Clem doesn’t mind.’

‘Yeah, I do, actually.’

Mum and Dad have one of those parent moments that make me hate being an only child. They think they’re being discreet, but I see the wordless conversation charging between them, communicating whole sentences with their eyes, and it makes me feel more in the way than ever.

I reach across, spear the largest piece of chicken breast and drag it across to my plate. I add a pile of skin, some potatoes, and a single spinach leaf from the salad, very pointedly avoiding the beetroot. Before I can eat a mouthful, Dad raises his glass of water. I know what’s coming next and I look down so I don’t have to see Mum’s face during the toast.

‘Sarah, welcome to our tiny abode. Now that you’re home, I’m hoping it means we can take it in turns to clean the toilet.’

Mum laughs and the sound washes into me, dragging me back to our old house, where we’d sit around the slightly wobbly table Dad found at a market somewhere and have dinner.

‘I’m delighted you’re here,’ Dad continues.

‘Me too,’ says Mum.

I know I should say something and I wait for them to turn and look at me, but thankfully they’re still smiling at each other across the table. I could be on the moon for all they care. I start stuffing my face with food, hoping my chewing will silence all the things I’m feeling.

‘Leg or wing?’ Dad says to Mum.

‘Um, about that, Pete … I’ve stopped eating meat.’

Dad laughs, his fork holding a chicken leg in the air, preparing to slide it onto Mum’s plate.

‘Really,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I kept meaning to tell you. It’s only a new thing. I gave up a month or so ago because I couldn’t bear eating the animals on Annie’s farm. And it’s been a good thing, so I’m just going to stay off it for a while.’

Dad looks as confused as I’m sure I did when he told me Mum was coming back.

‘Great! More for me,’ I say, pulling off the crispy brown chicken skin.