I wasn’t totally sure why, but I didn’t really want to see her in the house right now, so I made myself some microwave hot chocolate and found a little spot for myself in the backyard, dusted some spider webs off a linen chair from the garage and lit a fire.

I’d made sure to bring the copy of Healing Homosexuality.

The silence of the cul-de-sac was even more pronounced than usual, and the long shadows cast by the fire and the trees were entirely unsettling, so much so that Olivia made me jump when she arrived.

‘Ho ho ho!’ she said, her words muffled by the comically large scarf wrapped round most of her face. ‘Good holiday tidings.’

I sipped my not-quite-lukewarm hot chocolate just to have something to do with my hands. ‘Hey. Uh, do you want a chair?’

‘Nah, I’m good. I’ve been sitting all day. One big Christmas sit. Miles’s family is huge – like, he has all these little cousins and my God, it was cute at first but we actually watched them open presents for two hours and thirteen minutes, and I know that because I timed it. Oh, look.’ Olivia thrust her wrist into my face, revealing some sort of generally pleasant bracelet.

‘That’s … nice.’

‘Miles got it for me. It’s Pandora. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. I love it. Did you get anything exciting?’

‘Actually …’ I handed her the book.

It seemed to take a second for her eyes to adjust to read the title, because she was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘Oh my God. I knew she was kind of awkward about it, but oh my God.’

‘No, it’s not … it’s not from Mom. It was in my mailbox this morning. Wrapped, with my name on it.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

I stared into the fire and the fire waved back. ‘I am very much not kidding you.’

She flipped it open. Gasped. ‘Have you looked inside?’

My gut twisted. ‘No, what?’

Olivia handed me the open book; I couldn’t quite make out what it was in the dark, but it looked sort of like a newspaper clipping. I leaned in closer while the firelight ricocheted off it when it clicked – Benjamin J. Whitaker, age 46, passed away Monday, September 14th – it was Dad’s obituary.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was pretty sure Olivia was blabbering – there was a shrill buzzing assaulting my left ear – but the anger just bubbled and bubbled and made my hands shake and my nose run.

And then Olivia plucked the book from my hands and threw it into the fire.

I reached for it uselessly, watched the flames dance and lick and destroy, the man on the cover warping and convulsing until he was gone. I glared at Olivia. ‘Why did you do that?’