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I said nothing.

‘We used to call it your Christmas – Harri’s Holiday,’ he went on, his voice softer now. ‘D’you remember?’ He paused. ‘When did that stop, eh?’

‘When you went to jail,’ I murmured.

The moment hung there between us.

Two weeks before Christmas. That was when he was sentenced. That was when everything changed.

There was a silence – the kind where you realise you’ve said something that can’t be taken back. I felt the mattress lift as he stood up from the bed.

‘Aye,’ he said quietly. Then he left, and the door clicked shut behind him.

I curled into the cheap duvet and thought back to that year. He was right. I had loved Christmas once. But when the most important man in your life disappears without explanation, it ruins it. We sat that year with mashed potatoes and beans because Mum couldn’t afford a turkey after Dad lost his job, lost his freedom. She cried into a hankie while pretending she wasn’t.

A tear slipped down my face, and I shut my eyes tightly against the others that threatened to follow.

I remembered putting on shows and dancing in front of the tree, wanting to cheer Mum up. But my movements became awkward and forced, as I realised I didn’t know how to console her or to make her happy again. I felt powerless. He had ruined it all. All the happy memories had been wiped out for a few cans of beer and pocket change from the off-licence’s till.

*

An hour later, my afternoon nap was brutally disturbed by groaning noises. It was the sound of my dad participating in physical labour. I could hear Mum bark her orders, telling him exactly what she wanted from the loft.

My mouth was dry. I had refused to eat and had hardly drunk more than a lukewarm cup of tea in days.

‘Mum!’ I called out. ‘Mum!’ I tried again, over the noise of boxes being thrown down a flight of stairs.

‘What is it, Harri?’ she finally called back.

I cleared my throat. ‘Do you mind getting me a drink, please?’ I knew I was chancing it, but the thought of leaving my bedroom was too much.

‘Harri,’ she huffed. ‘I have glitter falling out my arsehole here! Go and get it yourself.’

I felt my eyes rolling to the back of my head. Did she not understand what I was going through?

I hauled myself to my feet and opened my bedroom door. Dad was halfway inside the loft hatch, legs dangling, while Mum stood beneath him like a spotter, gripping the ladder and muttering instructions.

‘Careful,’ she said. ‘Mind your back, for God’s sake!’

‘I’m fine,’ Dad puffed – which meant he absolutely wasn’t.

A cardboard box thudded to the floor, sending up a cloud of glitter and dead tinsel. Mum clapped her hands together like this was all very exciting.

‘There we go – tree’s out,’ she said brightly. ‘Harri, love, you can help me untangle the lights.’

‘I actually can’t,’ I said, picking my way down the stairs through the obstacle course they’d created. ‘New nails.’

She gave me the look. The one that used to terrify me as a child when I knew I’d gone too far. I sighed, as a box of stale, damp fairy lights got launched at me from the top landing.

‘I’ll be down in a minute!’ she insisted.

I walked into the living room, greeted by the smell of dust and fake pine – the distinct scent of Christmas being dragged out of storage, whether you liked it or not. I glanced around at the clutter, unsure where to sit or start. I kicked a small space clear and sank onto the floor, immediately stabbed in the thigh by a rogue plastic pine needle. Of course. Even the fucking tree hated me.

Mum walked in and handed me a bundle of fairy lights that looked like they had lost a fight with a tumble dryer. ‘Come on now. They worked last year,’ she said. ‘Mostly.’

I stared at them. ‘Are you joking? Mum, you need new lights every year!’ I insisted.

A high-pitched titter came out of her, followed by another of her looks. ‘Just start, Harri. Stop being difficult, hen.’