Antonia has left a message on the answerphone, telling me to call her if I need to. But by the time I pick up the message, it’s past six o’clock and she wouldn’t be in the office anyway.

I’m supposed to be going to the last young carers’ group meeting before Christmas, but I don’t want to remind Dad to take me. Things feel fragile, like we’re on the edge of something, as though one wrong move could send us toppling over the cliff, but if I just say or do the right thing at the right moment, I might be able to drag us back to safety.

Dad reads the page I’ve written. And then he cries. It’s so unexpected that for a moment I’m not sure what to do. But I go over and put my arms around him and say, ‘It’s okay, Dad. It’s going to be okay.’

He cries stiffly, like he’s rusty at it. And it isn’t long before he pushes me away (not in a mean way, though) and says, ‘That’s enough of that.’

It doesn’t magically change anything. He goes back to bed and only eats a piece of toast for tea. But I feel like it’s a small step.

A journey is made up of small steps, isn’t it? And sometimes you need to sit down, or go back a bit because moving forwards is too scary, or there’s something else you need to do first. But you can’t go on a journey without small steps.

I know now that taking steps is a lot nicer and easier when there’s someone to hold your hand. So I ring Mae and tell her how important she is to me. That she’s made everything brighter and richer, and she’s shown me shared wonder and happiness. And she cries, because Mae cries at everything – and that’s okay, because it’s happy crying.

And then I tell her we’re coming for Christmas.