When I get home, Dad isn’t in his library. He’s in the sitting room, which is strange, because we hardly ever use that room. It’s at the front of the house, on the right as you go in through the front door, with a big bay window that matches the one on the other side of the front door – the library window. There’s a tree outside this window too. Even when it’s bare in winter it shadows the house. Our house has a lot of shadows, it seems.

Mae’s mum has come in with me. She offered, and I didn’t have the courage to refuse. There’s a sofa with a green William Morris pattern on it, and a matching armchair, with some big green and white squashy cushions. The curtains are pale green and the walls are cream with a patterned wallpaper. A clock they call a ‘carriage clock’ ticks quietly on the mantelpiece, and two landscape paintings of the Lake District hang either side. The room is dusty, and even though there’s a television, we hardly ever watch it. It’s on right now, though, showing some children’s drama programme about werewolves. The volume is turned down very low, so the voices sound like they’re whispering in the silence.

Mum liked this room. She used to sit in here in the evenings after I’d gone to bed, sketching or reading. Reading the books that used to be behind the shutters in the library.

Sometimes Dad would sit and read in here too, both of them focused intently on their own work. The only sounds would be their regular breathing and the turning of a page. I can remember being told to go and play somewhere else, because my bricks and toy cars and dolls were ‘too noisy’. And then Mum would look at me, and her face would soften, and she would come with me and we’d play trains in the kitchen or do painting in the garden.

She was always better at make-believe than Dad. She would have been so excited about Mae’s Wendy house. She’d have painted murals on the walls and sat inside with us and made up silly poems and giggled. It feels like when she died most of the fun and the craziness went out of our lives. Or the nice kind of craziness did anyway. Now it appears Dad has a crazy all his own.

Dad is standing by the sofa, one hand resting on the back of it, as though he needs its support. He looks very tired.

‘Calypso,’ he says.

‘Hi, Dad.’ My tongue feels heavy in my mouth.

He looks at Mae’s mum.

‘I won’t stay,’ she says. ‘Calypso wanted me to come in with her.’

‘It’s all right,’ he tells her. Then he says to me, ‘I thought we might watch some television.’

‘Oh. All right.’

He sits down in the armchair, and after a moment’s pause I put my bag down on the floor and take off my coat.

‘I suppose …’ I say to Mae’s mum.

She smiles at me in a reassuring way. ‘You’ll be fine. And you’ve got my number, so ring if you need anything.’

Then she goes.

I sit down on the sofa. Dad turns up the volume and we both stare at the TV. Two characters are having an argument about who can be trusted. Then there’s a family scene, where the father interferes with what the kids want to do.

Dad says, ‘Why doesn’t he want them to go outside?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen it before.’

We watch a bit more. Some of the characters turn into wolves. I can almost feel Dad’s eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

‘Well,’ he says as the episode ends, ‘that was … educational.’ Then he mutes the volume and says, ‘Calypso, we need to talk.’

I say nothing. I find it hard to look at him.

‘Some people from social services came to see me today. I gather they went to see you too.’

‘Yes, at school.’

‘What did you think?’

I am puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you think they were helpful?’

‘Uh … I guess.’ I feel as though this isn’t a good answer. The TV screen flickers with a trailer for some other programme. ‘They were nice,’ I add lamely.

He nods. ‘They want me to go for counselling.’

‘Counselling?’

‘They think … I need to talk to someone. About your mother.’ He swallows.

I can’t say anything. Is that why he’s in this room – her room? To think about her? Is he sorry he threw out her books?

He goes on, ‘I think maybe they’re right. I have been – internalising. For protection, you know?’

I don’t really. ‘Er …’

‘Maybe it’s about time I talked to someone.’

My throat tightens with tears. Why couldn’t he talk to me? How did everything get this bad?

‘There’ll be another meeting soon,’ he says. ‘All of us in a room together, to talk through the plan.’

‘I know. They told me.’

He leans towards me, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Calypso, I’m very sorry. About the books – well, about everything. I’ve been … selfish. I haven’t been looking after you very well.’

My hands are tightly clasped in my lap. I should be grateful that he’s talking like this. His words should be reassuring, but I feel frightened. Dad doesn’t say these kinds of things. And he doesn’t use this tone of voice – the tone that says he’s vulnerable, that he’s unsure of himself. What’s more, we’re here, in the sitting room, in Mum’s room, and that feels wrong too.

I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, and I can’t stop myself falling off.

I wish I hadn’t discovered the lemons.