‘Sweetheart, tell them, tell them what you said yesterday when the waiter asked if you’d like dessert. Go on, tell them, sweetheart.’

‘Oh, it’s not a big deal, George, really.’

‘Oh, tell them, Jennifer, sweetheart. It was so funny, really it was.’

And then Mum would tell them, ‘I simply said that I’d put on the calories just looking at the dessert menu,’ and people would smile and laugh lightly, while Dad’s face beamed with pride at the hilarity of his wife, and Mum would smile that mysterious smile that revealed nothing and I would want to stand up and shout, ‘But that’s fucking ridiculous! That joke is three thousand years old! And it’s not even funny!’

I don’t know if Mum ever saw it the way I did. She always just smiled and that smile hid a million responses. Maybe that’s what made Dad nervous: how much she kept inside. Maybe he never knew how she felt. They weren’t like other couples that sometimes rolled their eyes at each other, or picked each other up on comments they’d made to discuss or debate them a little further. They were just both sickeningly agreeable with each other. Mum pan-faced, Dad always complimentary. Or maybe I simply don’t understand what was going on between them because I’ve never been in love. Maybe love is thinking that every time your partner does or says something mundane that you want to start a Mexican wave from here to Uzbekistan in utter delight. I’ve never had that with anyone.

I always felt Dad and I were total opposites. When he’s afraid, or was afraid, of someone leaving, he complimented them on everything. For example, if Mum’s friends visited, they usually annoyed him and he’d ignore them the entire time they were there, but then when they were leaving he’d make sure he gave them the warmest hugs, smile and send off possible. Dad was a ‘stand at the front door and wave until you can’t see the car any more’ kind of person. I’d just imagine Mum’s friends when they got home: ‘George is such a gentleman, when I left he gave me the biggest hug and helped me into my car. I wish you’d behave like that to my friends, Walter.’

Dad was more into last impressions than first ones, which makes his death all the more symbolic. I was the opposite. Just as I’d given Barbara an easy way to leave me by making bitchy remarks to her, I’d done the same to my mum and dad all my life. I make it easier for people to leave by making them momentarily hate me. I didn’t realise that other people kept and stored my spoiled behaviour, my sarcastic throw away comments. I’d been doing that since I was a child.

I used to beg Mum and Dad not to go out so much but they’d go out anyway. The only times they stayed in was to recharge their batteries, usually so exhausted and tired of being together they’d separate and spend the evening in different rooms. We never got to spend time with all of us together. I’ve learned now that what I desired more than some things-but not more than anything-was for us to spend time together, natural and easy time around the house, not pushed together in forced moments when they’d call me into the room to proudly present me with a gift or a surprise announcement.

‘Now, Tamara, you know how fortunate you are,’ would begin Mum, who has the biggest problem with guilt about having all the things we had. ‘There are lots of boys and girls that don’t get this opportunity…’

And in my head I wouldn’t feel the excitement they’d think I’d be feeling, though I’d be trying to show it on my face. All I’d hear was my own voice saying, yada yada yada, get to the point, what are you giving me now?

‘But as you’ve been so good and appreciative of all the lovely things you have, and because you are such a special daughter to us…’

Yada yada yada. It’s not a gift, I can’t see it anywhere in the room. Mum’s got no pockets, Dad’s hands are in his, so it’s not concealed on their bodies. We’re going somewhere. Today’s Wednesday. Dad goes to the driving range on Thursdays and Mum has her monthly colonic and without that she’d surely blow up, so we’re not going anywhere till Friday. It’s a weekend thing. So where’s close enough to go for a weekend?

‘We talked about it for a while and we feel…’

Yada yada yada. Perhaps, London for a weekend. But they always go to London and I’ve been there before, and they seem excited. So it’s somewhere we don’t often go. Paris. That’s close enough. Stuff for them to do; Mum can shop, Dad can follow her around, secretly buying the things for her that she loves but won’t get because they’re too expensive, and I can do what? What can I do in Paris? Oh, I get it now. Ah. Eurodisney. Cool.

‘We’ll give you three guesses,’ Mum almost squeals with excitement.

‘Oh, gee, this is impossible, Mum. How can I guess?’ I’d say, trying to be all confused and flustered and excited, thinking hard. ‘Okay,’ I’d bite my lip. ‘Aunt Rosaleen and Uncle Arthur’s for the weekend?’ I’ve learned that if you aim low first then it makes the parents more excited about your imminent shock and awe. I’d guess two more crappy places and watch as Mum would almost explode with excitement. Bless her.

‘We’re going to Eurodisney, Paris!’ Mum would exclaim, hopping up and down, and Dad would dive for the brochure to show me where we’re staying. Mum would search my face for the emotion; Dad head down with brochure in hand, would immediately point out the things. Things to do, things to see, things we can get, things that we’ll have. Look at this, flick through the pages, look at that. Things, things, things.

No matter how clever and rewarding parents think they are, children are one step ahead.

So to get back to my point, I kicked up an awful lot of fuss one night before they went out. I hurled a lot of abuse at them, not to make them feel guilty but because, back then, I actually meant it. But they went out anyway and because they probably felt so guilty about leaving me I didn’t get into any trouble for all the nasty things I’d said. I learned that they were always going to go no matter what I said, and so instead of feeling sad and embarrassed in front of Mae to be left behind at home, I pushed them away. I was in control.

Dad had been acting oddly in the weeks leading up to his death, maybe longer but I’m not too sure. I didn’t speak to anybody about this. I guess this is what diaries are for. I thought that he was going to leave us. I felt there was something peculiar, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was unusually nice. Like I said, he was always nice to Mum, usually nice to me if I was nice back, but this kind of nice was like a long and drawn-out wave goodbye from the door. A very long and very nice last impression. Long goodbye, very dead. I felt something was coming. Either we were leaving or he was.

Even when lots of people asked about his behaviour after his death, I maintained the same innocent and confused expression as Mum: ‘No, no, I didn’t notice anything wrong.’ Well, what was I going to tell them? For the week before Dad died I felt he was standing at the door waving us off, even long after we were out of view.

I felt something was coming and I did what I always did: I started to push him away. I was bitchier than usual, worse behaved than usual; smoked in the house, came home drunk, that kind of thing. I challenged him a lot more. Our fights were more vicious, my retorts more personal. Horrible stuff. I did what I’d done ever since I was a kid when I didn’t want them to go. I basically told him to leave. I hate him that he did what he did, when he did it. Any other night and I could have just mourned him. Now I’m mourning him and hating me and it’s almost too much for me to bear. Could he not at least have thought about how I’d feel, particularly after our last conversation? I gave him the worst goodbye and he did the worst thing in response. Maybe not because of me but I can’t have helped.