I never used to mind my parents referring to each other as ‘Mum’ or ‘Dad’, even though, technically, I should be the only one calling them that. But tonight it grates. After what happened with Bridge, maybe everything does.

‘Your new hoodie isn’t in the pile. Have you got it?’

‘Left it at Ellie’s.’ I’m getting much better at the quick lie.

He moves my teddy and then sits down on the corner of my bed. ‘We need to pick out some furniture for your room.’

‘I have furniture,’ I tell him.

‘Technically, yes … but wouldn’t you like a new bed? A new desk? What happened to the loft bed you wanted?’

I’ve always wanted a loft bed. But I’m not admitting that to anyone anymore. I force my shoulders into a shrug.

Dad reaches forward to touch my arm. His fingers are warm, like always. ‘Clem, is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s great, Dad.’

‘Sarcasm. Never a good sign.’

I move my arm away and pull the doona over my legs, tucking them up to make myself even smaller.

‘How’s school?’

‘Really? Now?’

He laughs and rubs his hand across the stubble on his face.

‘You’ve hardly told me anything about it. What have you learnt?’

‘I have homework. It’s due tomorrow.’

He nods. ‘Is that a hint?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, honey. Do you want us to bring you back a tub? They do a mean mango sorbet.’

Us. We. Them. ‘No, thanks.’

I watch him walk out, hoping he’ll look back before he shuts the door. Instead, he powers on through and closes the door a little harder than normal.

My homework is due tomorrow and I’ve stalled my way through a week already. If I don’t manage to write something this afternoon, then I’ll have to explain myself tomorrow in class. I start typing.

Before I was born my dad planted a row of daffodil bulbs along the fence. The story goes that they bloomed the night I was born and when my parents brought me home from hospital, my dad introduced me to every one of the bright yellow flowers. Those bulbs still bloom every year at my birthday. They burst open and fill the garden with hope, before closing over a few weeks later, until the next year.

Instead of saving the words, though, I delete them. Dad’s not the hero of this story. And I don’t even like daffodils. I slam my laptop shut and head upstairs to see Matt. I’m sure I can convince him to hang out for a bit. He seems even less interested in homework than I am.

‘Hey,’ says Matt, sort of smiling as he opens the door. I sniff the air, hoping for cake. Someone laughs behind him, but it doesn’t sound like Maggie.

‘Do you want to hang out?’ I say, starting to edge inside.