‘He’s the dad. He’s the adult. Well, I guess technically you’re an adult too, but he’s been one for a really long time. We’re still new at this. He’s the one putting unfair pressure on you. It’s his responsibility to fix your relationship, to ask about your feelings, to figure out a new approach. Not yours.’ I’m passing this off as my own wisdom, but really, Nanna told me this, when I was thirteen and told her my plan to help Dad navigate the school holidays with us. She said, ‘Oh honey, that’s not your job.’

‘Yeah, I guess. It all feels a bit hopeless. It’s pathetic, even talking about it,’ Jesse says.

‘It’s not pathetic,’ I say, putting my hand on his arm. I wish I had the superpower to transmit comfort and happiness through my touch right in this second, to inject him with every good feeling I can think of. ‘This stuff matters,’ I say. ‘You matter.’

You matter to me, I wish I had the courage to add.

‘With your dad, how do you do it?’ he asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How do you handle it? When he lets you down, or you get angry with him?’ He’s looking at me like I might have a magic answer. As if I haven’t wasted countless hours of my life trying to figure it out.

‘I don’t, really. Or I guess I do. I just kind of try to accept how it is now and keep hoping we might figure it out one day. It’s different with us, because there’s not much there, really, to fight against anymore. Getting angry at him is like being angry at a void. He’ll listen, or pretend to listen. He’ll say sorry, send me a random gift I don’t want, give me money, and then do it all again. It’s okay, I don’t need him to show up in that way, because I have Nanna and Mum and Lauren,’ I say. I have a home and Dad isn’t part of it.

‘I used to get so angry sometimes,’ says Jesse. ‘That’s why I started running, you know? I didn’t want to turn into an angry guy, it’s such a cliché, and there are enough angry men out there. Running got rid of all that.’ He pauses. ‘I want…I guess I just want to find somewhere I feel like I belong.’

‘You belong with us. With me and Harper and our house,’ I say.

We look at each other, and then I look away, because it feels like the eye contact is taking us somewhere.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘What for?’

‘For coming over here with no warning and turning your night into a fucking therapy session.’

‘I don’t mind. I like talking to you.’

We smile at each other.