He reached across the table and took my hand. His calloused palm was as familiar to me as the sunlight on the lake, but I could not remember the last time he had wrapped his fingers around mine.

‘We know you, Eleanor. We love you.’

I held on tightly to my father’s hand, even as we cried together. Even when my mum came in to find out why no one had set the tables, we didn’t let go, and so she made us a cup of tea with not one but two biscuits each. Even as Grandma then joined us, chuckling at the early reviews I’d written in Windermere, and how I’d called out their arch-rivals, the snooty, overpriced establishment a mile down the road, for ‘ironically’ serving Heinz tomato soup still in the tin, as that justified charging eight pounds for it.

I had a weird family. We didn’t do big heart-to-hearts or emotional outbursts. We rarely said, ‘I love you,’ and barely ever showed it. But here, sat at the table where I’d chopped ten zillion onions and cracked a squillion eggs, I remembered again the reason why people kept coming back to this strange little B & B year after year. Why they put up with the rigid rules and archaic systems. It was because absolutely everyone was welcome here. Welcomed, and accepted, and treated with dignity and uncommon kindness. No matter who they were, or what they might have done.

Right down to the newest member of staff.

For a fleeting moment, I made a mental note to never lose sight of that when running Damson Farm Retreats. Until I remembered that I didn’t do that any more. I would mention it next time I spoke to Becky. She might find it useful.

‘Right. We’re twelve minutes late starting the linen. Eleanor, if you don’t mind?’ Mum said, whipping away my mug and plate.

I didn’t mind, at all.

Well. Only a tiny bit.

I booked the rest of the week off. My parents, of course, insisted I pay for my room if I wasn’t there to work, but then later on both Mum and Dad refunded me the money separately, on top of the basic wages they’d been paying me.

I was there to work, but that week it wouldn’t be for the Tufted Duck. For four days I wrote, deleted, rewrote, cut and pasted and deleted most of it again. I had moments where I nearly cracked under the pressure, and others where the words flowed like the Maddon river. Eventually, what emerged was the article of my life. It wouldn’t make or break me – no words would have the power to do that to me again. But it did at least express the most honest apology that I could offer, and I hoped a stark warning and a useful insight to others who may have been temporarily dazzled by the bright lights of fame and fortune, as well as my lessons learnt on the crushing impact of living a lie, rather than facing up to being true to yourself, however tough that might be.