Mum puts the tray down in the middle of the floor and I strain to see what it is, but Dad steps in my way.

‘Can I take your order, ma’am?’

Laughing at Dad being ridiculous = 1 spoon

‘Ummm … Happy Meal, please. Do they still do them?’

I remember we’d go after swimming practice sometimes, pulling in at the drive-through and ordering a Happy Meal each – even Mum and Dad. And we’d bring them home and have a picnic on the living-room floor, swapping toys and gherkins and milkshakes.

‘Of course they still do Happy Meals – they’re an institution,’ Mum says.

Dad steps back as she brings me over a box painted yellow and red, and something in a paper cup with a plastic lid.

I look up at them. ‘But I can’t eat –’

‘Just open it,’ Dad says, bringing two other boxes on to the bed for him and Mum.

I pull the handles and inside is a wrapped burger and a chip box, exactly as I remember them … but not quite.

I pull out the chips and laugh. ‘Cucumber chips! My favourite.’

Mum has the same. ‘Don’t forget the sauce,’ she says, balancing three tiny cups of mayonnaise on the duvet.

I take out the burger and unwrap it, slowly. And inside is a burger, without the bun, covered in shredded lettuce and a thick slab of vegan cheese.

‘How did you do this?’

Dad takes a bite of his burger – also bunless. ‘I went in just to ask for the boxes, but turns out they don’t do that. So I bought three Happy Meals, came home and washed all the packaging until it was a no-gluten, no-carb, no-onion, no-whatever-else zone.’

‘But what did you do with the real Happy Meals?’ I say.

He shrugs, taking another bite. ‘I ate them in the car.’

Mum stops eating. ‘You ate all three meals?’

‘I did,’ he says, swallowing.

‘And now you’re eating that one …’

He nods again, but he’s smiling this time.

‘Greedy sod.’ Mum shakes her head.

I take a bite of my burger. And if I close my eyes, it really is just like being nine again, having picnics on the floor. Even though it’s cucumber, and special plain burgers Dad has fried himself, and really just the simple food I eat every day – it feels different. Like going back in time.

‘Don’t forget your toy,’ Dad says.

Mum tuts. ‘Isn’t Alice a bit old for –’

‘No way!’ I say, scrabbling in the box.

I have a clockwork T-rex that marches across my knee when I wind it up. And I think of Rowan pairing small dinosaur socks and I wonder if – one day – I could give this to his brother. I clutch it.