‘Ignore it, Uma, don’t say anything,’ Dad whispers. ‘The more we make a thing of it, the longer she’ll want to stick it out!’

‘Stick what out?’ Mum whispers back.

‘Her landing protest!’

The smell of bacon comes wafting up the stairs. Dad never makes bacon sarnies in the week. I come down in my uniform and sit at the table.

‘Here you go! Weekend breakfast on a schoolday! Can’t be bad!’ Dad places a sizzling bacon bap and a glass of orange juice on the table.

My stomach makes a hungry growl.

‘Sounds like you need it.’

I sit and look at the plate, and even though the smell is driving me crazy, and my mouth’s producing mad amounts of saliva, I can’t get the slaughterhouse pictures from Nana’s Protest Book out of my head.

‘I can’t eat this, Dad.’

‘Why not? Come on, Laila. It’s my cheer-you-up breakfast! Tuck in!’

‘It’s meat!’ I say.

‘And? You love meat.’

‘Not any more. It makes me feel sick.’

‘It’s from free-range pigs. They’ll have had a good life.’

‘Before their throats were cut.’

Dad looks at me like he thinks I’m messing about.

‘I’m not eating it. I’m vegetarian now.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since I read about what actually goes into slaughtering animals. Anyway, if everyone was vegetarian it would help with climate change. Do you know how much cows fart?’

Dad bursts out laughing.

‘That’s what happens when you eat too much rabbit food!’ Dad jokes.

I give him my ‘so not amused’ look.

‘That’s it then. It’s all over! Am I the only carnivore left in this house till the prodigal son comes home?’ Dad moans.

‘Looks like it!’ Mum sounds pleased. ‘What did I do with those case notes?’ she asks, rushing around, trying to find a file for work.

‘It’s on the sofa in the living room,’ I tell her.

‘Thanks, Laila!’

I open the fridge to get some milk for cereal. All I can see is meat. Minced beef, chicken and bacon . . . I inspect the bacon. It’s bog standard. There’s nothing on the packet that says anyone’s made an effort to give the animal it once was a good life. I close the door and start rearranging the mini fridge magnets. The ones Mira and Krish used to write notes to Mum and Dad with when they went out. It takes me a while.

‘You lied, Dad,’ I say as I’m arranging the second ‘t’ in ‘torture’. There are only capitals left for ‘TORTURE’.

‘Lied about what?

I point to the fridge. ‘Nothing in there’s free range, not even the eggs.’

‘It usually is, isn’t it, Uma?’

Dad’s doing that funny ‘talking between clenched teeth and raising his eyebrows up and down’ thing to try to get Mum to agree with him.

‘No! Don’t you remember? Krish was eating so much it was getting too expensive . . . but I’m thinking if you’re the only carnivore in the house, we might as well all go veggie! Great slogan, Laila!’ Mum laughs as she reads the fridge letters.

‘Thanks for the support, Uma!’ Dad scowls.

‘So you lied to get your way, Dad?’ I say.

‘Give me a break, Laila! I’m in the minority here. My only hope is Janu—’

‘Not a chance! He’s veggie too – he might even be vegan . . . I’d better check.’ Mum laughs at the look of despair on Dad’s face.

Dad places his forehead on the table, arms dangling by his sides, like his world has come to an end.