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I laughed harder. ‘He thought he looked like Hugh Jackman from The Greatest Showman.’

Mum pointed dramatically towards the window. ‘More like Hughie Hutchison from across the fucking street.’

I cackled.

‘And those daft wee loafers with no socks!’ she continued. ‘In December, might I add.’

‘They were Roman!’ I protested, holding up a finger.

‘Aye,’ she snorted. ‘Well, they should be roaming for recycling straight down to that tip in Polmadie.’

We both collapsed into laughter.

‘Fucking fanny! He needs to get himself down to Clarks, hen. A good leather sole is what he’s needing.’

Eventually, my sides aching from laughter, she dragged me downstairs to join her and Dad for their movie night. I curled up on the sofa with a knitted blanket and a cup of hot tea, the Christmas tree blinking lazily in the corner. We watched The Holiday together as a trio. Of course, my mum provided nonstop commentary on how that Rufus Sewell is another two-timing prick who cannae-keep-it-in-his-pants.

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, I woke to the sound of howling wind battering the window. I shoved it shut as hard as I could, trying to stop the icy draught sneaking in, and stared out at the back gardens coated white in frost. Then I flopped back onto the bed.

Something felt off. It was too quiet. I sat up.

‘Mum?’ I called out.

Nothing.

I grabbed my phone from the bedside table. It read 11.45.

Finally, a decent sleep, I thought. But still . . . why was it so quiet? No kettle clattering. No TV blaring at a volume my dad insisted was ‘normal’. No cheesy Christmas songs blasting from the speaker. I pulled on my fluffy socks and dressing gown and padded downstairs.

‘Mum? Dad?’

Still nothing. The living room was empty. The Christmas tree blinked its multicoloured lights at me like it knew something I didn’t.

I wandered into the kitchen. No toast crumbs on the counter. No one moaning at me for spending half the day in bed. Fuck. This was unsettling. This must be what Macaulay Culkin felt like in Home Alone, I thought.

Then I noticed Mum’s jacket was missing from the chair where she usually hung it at night. Aaagh. She’d gone to the community centre without me. Early, maybe because they were a man – actually, an Ina – short. And just like she’d promised, there had been no banging on my door demanding I help. No dragging me out of bed like when I was a teenager struggling to get to school. Well, thank fuck for that, I thought. Finally. Peace.

I sighed and collapsed onto the sofa. Maybe I should catch up on the Harriette Hope TikTok saga. But the second the idea crossed my mind, butterflies flipped in my stomach. Last time I’d gone down that rabbit hole, I’d ended up with a fanny full of Zoflora and a pearl necklace – and definitely not the round, lustrous kind. No. Absolutely not. I should just relax. I lay back and stared up at the ceiling. Then I sat up again. Right. Tea first.

I shuffled into the kitchen, scuffing my fluffy socks along the cheap vinyl flooring to warm my toes, and reached for the fridge.

That’s when I clocked it. The Christmas countdown calendar I’d made at school when I was eight. It was thirteen days till Christmas.

My stomach dropped. Thirteen days. Dad had spoken about that calendar a few days after I arrived home. Somehow they’d kept it all these years, still hanging on the fridge. Guilt pressed heavily on my chest. I thought about everything Mum had said the night before – about Dad, about his illness, about how many people didn’t have the help he did. I stared at the wonky Santa drawing, at how I’d coloured wildly outside the lines.

‘Obviously not quite the perfectionist then, Harri,’ I muttered.

I glanced back at the empty chair where Mum’s pale blue coat, handbag and glasses normally sat and I sighed. I felt like I was letting them down. They were out there in their sixties, trying to help people who actually needed it, and I’m here . . . wallowing in self-pity!

‘For fuck sake.’

I stormed upstairs, yanked on Mum’s leggings, jumper, hat and scarf, then pulled on my big furry coat and boots. Five minutes later, I was marching through the freezing streets towards the community centre.

The centre was only a few streets away, but the wind whipped straight into my face, and almost immediately, I regretted my decision. I mean . . . how could I walk back in there after everything I’d said to Jamie yesterday? Maybe I could just ignore him. At the end of the day, he didn’t actually cook – he mostly dealt with the guests. But I had slated this place. Out of sheer, spiteful anger. I knew deep down that the volunteers did an amazing, selfless job here, but Jamie had got under my skin so much that I’d lashed out.

My stomach twisted. Maybe I could phone Mum instead. Ask her what’s for dinner or say I’m bored. Yes, I could say I’d just popped by and offer to cut vegetables or something because I’m so bored. My finger throbbed suddenly as I remembered the last time I’d been trusted with a knife.