I don’t think I’ll ever want to move house. Even though Toby keeps saying it’s too small for the four of us now. That once the kids turn into teenagers we’ll be bursting at the seams. I’m all for converting the loft – there’s just enough room for a bedroom and en suite – but Toby’s dragging his heels. He’s hoping I’ll change my mind about moving. Keeps pointing out bigger and better properties online. I make all the right appreciative noises, but I dread the day he pushes harder for us to actually leave.

I think it’s because we’ve always been so happy there. Our little house reminds me of how my family home used to be before Mum died. Not the look and style of the place, but the atmosphere and feel. My childhood home was always full of warmth and laughter. A direct contrast to how things were afterwards. When Dad stopped talking and Dina grew distant. When I was the only one putting in any effort. Not that my effort seemed to make any difference.

Even before Dina left home, I could barely get two words out of her. I guess back then I was trying to take the place of our mum. I cooked and cleaned, sorted out school stuff, tried to be a shoulder to cry on. But instead of the two of us growing closer, Dina seemed to resent me. She thought I was interfering in her life. Told me to mind my own business and butt out. I was concerned that she was so secretive about everything. That she never confided in me or Dad. I should probably be grateful she didn’t get into any trouble at school.

Maybe she was simply going through normal, grumpy teenage behaviour – something I missed out on as I was forced to grow up too quickly. But there weren’t even any brief moments of bonding between us. No bright spots to see us through the erosion of our childhood relationship. I can’t help think that if Mum hadn’t died, the two of us would have been closer. We might have been friends. Instead, Dina treated me like an annoyance. Like someone she couldn’t wait to get away from.