Lisiella’s words make me frightened, and I watch Dad very carefully for the next few days. But he just seems quiet and a bit sad, which is no different from usual. Normal, I guess. The fear stays, though, and I keep wondering if I’m going to come home from school one day and find him huddled in a corner, sobbing.

But instead when I get home one Tuesday I find him in the kitchen. The radio is on, playing something classical and stirring, and Dad is stirring too – rice in a pan on the stove. He turns to me and I feel slightly faint with surprise, because he looks happy. Actually happy, with a smile on his face and colour in his cheeks. The sight makes my jaw drop. And, for some reason, it makes me even more nervous.

‘Isn’t it a grim day out?’ he says cheerfully. ‘I thought I’d make that chicken recipe to brighten things up.’

‘Wow.’ I put my bag down on the floor. It is a grim day out. I’m pretty wet from the constant drizzle and the drive-by splashing from the cars on the road. The bus was full of people, their breath steaming up the windows. The walk from the bus stop to my house was a cold one, and my coat is last year’s and now too short at the wrists, so my hands are freezing. ‘That sounds great. I need warming up.’

Dad says, ‘Why don’t you go and get changed? Put on some more layers. This’ll be ready in about ten minutes.’

I don’t say that it’s an odd time to have supper – 3.45 p.m. – because when’s the wrong time for supper if you’re hungry? Instead, I go upstairs, throw my uniform on the floor and find the comfiest clothes I can, along with two pairs of socks and the slippers that are so worn out they’re almost dangerous on our smooth flagstones.

Dad is dishing up, and it smells delicious.

‘I forgot to have lunch,’ he says, ‘so this is kind of my lunch-supper. Like brunch, only in the afternoon.’

‘It smells amazing,’ I tell him. ‘Just like Mae’s mum made.’

‘There’s lots too,’ he says. ‘So we can have seconds.’

I laugh. I can’t believe the way he’s behaving. He’s like a different person. He’s not looking at me in that anxious way, in that ‘have I done something wrong?’ way. He looks like he’s having a good time. Not mad, crazy good, just … normal good. He looks relaxed.

The knot of fear inside me relaxes a little too. ‘Are you okay, Dad?’

He nods in between shovelling food into his mouth. ‘I’m all right. I feel quite good today. Must be the drugs kicking in at last.’

The doctor gave him some tablets about a month ago, and they did tell him they’d take a while to work. Is this the answer then? Medicine? Has it fixed him? Will he be all right now?

The dinner tastes just as good as it smells, and I eat and eat, feeling warmth spread right through me.

‘This is great, Dad! You can really cook!’

He looks pleased. ‘I just followed the recipe. It’s not that difficult.’

‘Well, I think it’s even better than Mae’s mum made it.’ This isn’t strictly true. There are some bits of rice that have clumped together, and one side of my chicken piece is a bit burned, but I don’t say that. ‘What are you going to make next?’

‘I was looking through one of Coral’s recipe books,’ he says, and I jump slightly, since I can’t remember the last time he used her first name. ‘There’s a beef casserole that looks nice. I might go shopping tomorrow.’

I beam at him. ‘I can help if you like. Chopping vegetables or something.’

‘Thank you.’ He looks at me. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good,’ I say. ‘I’m really good.’ Because, for that moment, I am.

He smiles back. ‘So am I. Chin-chin.’

We clink forks.

My heart is as full as my stomach. I want to freeze this moment in time so that I can find it again when I need it.

And it turns out I need it only two days later, when everything goes wrong again.