It had been a small funeral. Dad and his temper had managed to estrange most of our neighbours in the small, dingy street I’d grown up in, and he’d never really had friends. It was only a few cousins, who’d barely known him, some people from the pub, a few old colleagues. The vicar had said some lies about him, how Dad was a loving family man, quick with a joke or a helping hand. He hadn’t been any of those things.

After the funeral, helping my mother clear out his sad, worn-out slacks, the jumpers with holes in the neck, the oppressive smell of the house all around me, I’d come across his pipe, resting on the side of the armchair. Where he sat night after night, controlling the TV, shouting if anyone banged a door or talked too loudly. Mum had said something like, he loved that pipe, make sure you don’t break it, and I’d exploded. Said some things – how could she pretend he’d been a good man, after all he’d done. How could she sit there in church as if he hadn’t controlled our lives with his moods and temper, his quick fists. As if he’d never broken her arm, or kicked her when she lay winded on the floor. Never left slap marks on my face, or thrown a full cup of tea at me when it wasn’t to his liking.

She’d fought back. How dare I, coming back here, turning my nose up at their life, dishonouring my father on the day we put him in the ground. When I stormed out, grabbing my wheelie case and rushing down the street in uncomfortable heels, not caring which of the neighbours saw my angry tears, part of me had felt relief. I didn’t need to go back now, bring Cassie and Benji for awkward visits, watch Benji trip on the death-trap stairs or Cassie’s bafflement at the tinned, sugary food my mother dished out. That part of my life was over.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I shouldn’t have said it. Not then.’