Once she’s gone, a wave of tiredness washes over me. The children disappear off to their rooms to amuse themselves, and I start preparing an omelette for our tea. Dad’s still sitting at the kitchen table. Now that the boxes are unpacked, he’s already made a start on the firelighters, rolling each sheet into a tube, flattening it, then bending it diagonally in the centre, folding one side and then the other until he’s made a little concertina-like creation. I remember him showing us how to make them when we were kids. While Mum was still alive.

‘You okay, love?’ It’s a question he now asks me at least twenty times a day.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Feels good to have got that lot unpacked and put away.’

‘I’ll make you up a box of these lighters, and then you can get the kids to add to it. It’s going to be a cold winter and you’ll be glad of these to get the fire going quickly on a chilly evening. I’ll order you some logs from the fella I use.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

After I was discharged from hospital, Dad took the kids and I back to his place. I have to hand it to him, he was incredible. All those parenting skills he’d been lacking after Mum died came out in full force as he cared for his grandchildren. While I attempted not to fall to pieces, he cooked for them, played with them, chatted with them and comforted them, all in his own understated way. I tried not to feel bitter that he’d never done any of this for me and Dina while we were growing up. He was doing it now, and that’s what mattered.

After several months of living with him, I could tell that Dad was finding the noise and disruption wearing. Although he never complained, bless him.

I take the pan off the heat and slide it under the grill to melt the cheese on top of the omelette.

‘I am sorry, you know,’ Dad says, dropping another firelighter into the box.

‘Sorry?’ I ask. ‘For what?’ I turn the grill down and sit opposite him.

He sighs and scratches the stubble on his chin. ‘I wasn’t a very good dad to you and Dee, was I?’

It’s true. He wasn’t the greatest father. But I’m surprised to discover that I don’t feel resentful any more.

‘I don’t want to make excuses,’ he continues. ‘But after I lost your mum…’ He frowns and stares down at his hands, picks at his fingernails.

‘It’s okay, Dad, you don’t have to explain.’

‘But… I do. I want to.’

‘You were grieving for Mum, I get it.’