And then the bus began to climb and the road became curvy as it traversed hills rather than the flat plain.

And then forest. I hadn’t expected that.

Open, sun-dappled forest. Black-trunked trees with deep fissures running all the way up: the roughest, most textured ebony bark I’d ever seen. Leaves, long and thin and shimmering silver-blue, stood out brilliantly against the shadowy trunks. I thought of Hessel’s Dutch pictures – the beauty of something bright contrasted against shadow. The air grew sweet and I saw that each and every tree was in flower: a cluster of creamy white flowers at the end of every branch, an overall winter spectacle as delicate and as breathtaking as any snowfall on German forest. And the fragrance – the winter sun on the flowers filled the air with honey, an aroma that broke through all the stale smells of the bus and filled my heart with a reasonless joy. I stood up, opened the small sliding window above the larger window, ignoring the looks from my co-passengers as cold air poured into the bus, put my nose to the outside and breathed and breathed and breathed. The bus driver smiled in the mirror.

And then, sooner than I would have liked, the forest thinned and old brick houses and fenced-off depots full of earthmoving equipment and farm machinery appeared among the trees. And in a matter of minutes there was no forest at all as the bus reached the top of the hill that overlooked the busy town and began its descent into it.

I shut the window and sat back down. My phone had bars. Instantly it pinged. A message from Nassim. Just saying goodnight, no need to call me back. Unless you want to. Goodnight sweets.

Quickly, pushing all thought and guilt aside, I closed the message and opened my emails instead. There was nothing from my mum, but my email was full of messages from my dad. The first was Dad entreating me to reach out and talk to my mother. You don’t understand where she’s coming from, honey, he wrote. But I’d heard it all before. He was like a broken record. I was sick of having to understand where she was coming from. It was time for me to look out for me.

In the next few emails Dad had attached shots of his head in front of various scenes, smiling against the main street of the town, the little German church with its plain and beautiful lines, a summer scene of lazy cyclists along a canal. There was one of my father with Opa, Dad holding his hand while Opa’s rheumy eyes tried to find the camera to smile for me.

My eyes filled with tears. I’d been stupid, so stupid not to go there. But then, what would have happened if I’d gone? I would have been over there, having to sort out my situation in a foreign country under my dad’s watchful eye. Impossible. Tears made the words swim as I responded with Looks like fun and Hug and kiss Opa for me, let him know I love love love him, and then hit send.