‘I’m leaving. I will join my choir in the hotel tonight,’ Nonno announces, placing an espresso in front of me. He’s only just got back from Cardiff. He left straight after the scene the other night.

‘No! Is it because of me?’ I ask, ready with an appeal to make him stay, an apology, anything to keep it as the three of us and not the two of us. I can’t be the one who pushes him away.

I don’t want him to leave me.

I want him to be here always.

I carefully move the espresso away from me, that’s the last thing I need.

‘Of course not, piccolina. It is better that I stay with the rest of my choir and after the Opera House in Manchester it will simply be time for me to go home,’ he says, and the last word stabs at me because he still has a home, even without Nonna. He still sees his house, their house, as a home. If he goes, this house won’t feel like home. It’ll just go back to being somewhere I live, somewhere I sleep and eat and wash and go through the motions. I know it and Mum knows it. But neither of us can say it because it is too sad to say out loud.

‘But what about the Singing Medicine concert, can’t you stay for that?’ I try to keep the whine out of my voice but from the look on his face I fail.

‘You and your mother need your space, you need to find your way back to one another,’ he replies.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You push her away, she hides her troubles from you, you both dance the quickstep around each other trying not to cause pain, but it isn’t working, is it?’ He looks tired. I’ve made him tired. ‘And now it is time to talk, because you cannot wander down separate paths anymore. What if you never find the right path back to each other?’ he asks. ‘She is all you have. You must treasure her.’

I want to deny it but before I can say anything Mum marches into the kitchen. Her hair is back up in a boring business-like bun. She gives me her ‘We don’t have time to sit and chat over a leisurely breakfast’ face and I nod, keen to avoid another argument in front of Nonno.

‘Good morning, Gianni.’ She plants a kiss on his cheek as she whisks his espresso away and pours it down the sink. I wait for him to argue with her, but he doesn’t say anything. She pours him a fresh orange juice. I watch them together, they’ve known each other for longer than I’ve been alive. I wonder what he thought of her when Dad first brought her home to Italy. Did he like her? Did he approve?

I sigh. I don’t want him to go. This feels like my fault. If I’d been better behaved or less awkward, or just normal, then he wouldn’t be talking about hotels.

‘It is not your fault, piccolina,’ he whispers into my ear as I kiss him goodbye, but I shake my head. It is my fault and we both know it.