I could not look at him.
Because every time I did, I could see him in the June of 2023, in a morning suit, with my arm through his, at the top of an aisle, with that folder in a drawer at home.
And I could not work out whether that was the most disciplined act of love I have ever been shown, or a man protecting his relationship with his daughter at the cost of two years of her life.
And I still cannot. In the April I decided to be his daughter anyway and I did not decide the other thing, and I do not think I am going to.
And the four days between the car park and him leaving the flat, which I spent in a hotel with a newborn and which nobody ever asks about.
Because the two saloons and the car seat and the phone charger are the good part of the story and everybody stops there.
