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looked at Dad. “You tell her,Frank, I think that – well, I think it’s you that should tell her.” The way my dad looked at my mum then – I’ve never seen him look at her like that before, or anyone. He looked at her as if he didn’t even know her, like she was just some strange woman in his house telling him what to do. He looked at her as if he didn’t like her, not even a little bit.
    “Ruby, you know that things have been difficult at home for a while, don’t you…” I shook my head vigorously; just like Mum he was talking about “things” again. I wanted to ask him, why didn’t he say what he meant? Why didn’t he talk about me, Mum, us? We’re not “things”, we’re living, breathing people.
    “No. No, I don’t know that. I think THINGS have been fine. Really fine,” I said. “So don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Is that all?” Dad bit his lip and took a breath. He picked up his fork and put it down again. Then he swallowed as if someone had made him take some really bad medicine. I watched his face for any sign of what it was he was about to say, but it was almost as if my dad wasn’t in there.
    “Ruby, I’m sorry,” he spoke at last. “Your mum and I, we don’t get along like we used to. We’ve been making each other…unhappy…for a long time now.” My mum huffed out a breath of air as if “unhappy” wasn’t nearly a good enough word to describe how my dad made her feel.I looked at them both, from one to the other. My mum and dad: the two people who put me here in the world. It was them loving each other in the first place that made me happen. If they hated each other, then what about me? Did they hate me too? I tried to make them see.
    “Are you sure?” I said quickly. “Because I don’t think you’re as unhappy as you think you are. I mean, when you say a long time, how long do you mean? We were happy at Christmas, weren’t we? And that’s only a few months ago. We were happy on holiday. We’re happy every day, aren’t we?” Neither one of them would look at me. “Well, aren’t we?” I pressed on. “It’s about working it out, isn’t it? And anyway, you don’t make each other unhappy because, Mum, Dad got you that perfume you really wanted at Christmas, didn’t he? And you were happy that day, weren’t you? And you’re happy when Mum makes a big roast, aren’t you, Dad? You love a big roast, don’t you?” Mum looked at her hands.
    “Well?” I said to them both. Mum reached across the table and picked up my hand, her skin felt hot and dry.
    “We were, darling, but you’ll understand this better when you’re a bit older. Being happy for one day a year, or just sometimes – it’s not enough.” She screwed her eyes shut tightly for a second and then looked at me. “And sometimes…sometimes it’s easier to pretend to behappy.” I shook my head in disbelief. Mum was holding my hand, but it felt like I was slipping away from her, from Dad, from everything I knew and trusted about my life and into an unknown darkness.
    “No, you see that’s not right. And anyway, it’s a start, isn’t it?” I looked at Dad, desperate to make him see. “It’s enough to start with, Dad? Right? Because you used to be happy every day, and if you used to be, you could be again.” I sat up a bit and reached out my other hand to Dad so I was linking them both together. “I know there are rocky patches, but I think we’ll be OK, I really do.” I smiled at them both. “I really, really do, but I’m glad we’ve talked about it and it’s all out in the open so really all we have to do now is—”
    “Ruby, I’m leaving.” Dad spoke over me; the words dropped on to the table with a clatter like heavy stones. “I’m not going to live in the house any more,” he said. I stared at him, my smile gradually fell and melted away.
    “You mean for a bit, like before?” My voice was very small. “While you clear your head and have space?” I asked him hopefully.