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was saying, but it was about Ty and it scared me. Tiff, I thought it was finished. I thought …’ Finally she turns to face her daughter and the fear on her face is palpable.
    â€˜Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have –’
    â€˜What? Called the police? Again? You know there’s nothing they can do. Unless he actually comes to the house … I wasn’t even going to say anything, but …’
    T.J. stands and crosses the space between them, sliding her arms around her mother’s shoulders.
    â€˜Like you said, he was just drunk. He wouldn’t dare do anything. Not again …’
    She moves around and takes hold of Ty, lifting him from the high chair and swinging him towards the door.
    â€˜Come on, Sport. We’ll finish feeding you outside. It’s a beautiful day; no point in wasting it in here.’
    *
    T.J.’s story
    â€˜I was just fifteen when my father was diagnosed. The big C.’
    The conversation was quickly turning into a dramatic monologue, but there was nothing I could do about it.
    Cain asked a couple of probing questions and suddenly it was pouring out and I couldn’t stop it. Even though part of me was trying. At that moment I could think of no quicker way to drive a new guy away than to treat him to a list of all the gory details.
    But somehow it didn’t really feel like there was any danger of that. He sat across from me, with the Friday-night Fox Studio crowds moving past behind him, and his eyes never left my face. I couldn’t help thinking that there was a bit of the chameleon in him. Every time I met him there was something subtly different about his manner. The way he talked – or listened – the way he joked, the light behind his eyes …
    On our first date, he’d been the one who kept the conversation going, putting me at ease, filling in the awkward pauses with jokes. This time, he was more like … the audience. Or the therapist.
    Believe me, I’m an expert on therapists …
    Anyway, there I was sitting with the remains of my main course in front of me, pouring out my deepest secrets without a second thought. And he nodded, fed me the question, which drew out the next revelation, and never made a comment on what I was saying.
    It was liberating – and terrifying. But I couldn’t stop.
    â€˜Twelve months of operations and chemo and watching his slow slide and then it was over. It was strange … All I could remember from my childhood was his strength and then it was gone. At the end, he was frail and tired, until finally the fight just drained out of him.
    â€˜My mother was so strong while the situation still held a vague possibility of hope, but she just fell apart in the days and weeks after the funeral. At first I tried to help her, to be there for her, but I had no experience. I was barely sixteen and I was having enough trouble dealing with it myself. There was nothing I could draw on to make a difference for her. So I pulled away.
    â€˜She never blamed me for not being there for her. There was never a word of accusation then, or later. I guess she understood how I was feeling – probably a whole lot better than I did. But sometimes I wonder how different things might have turned out if we’d been able to communicate during those months, the way we’ve managed to do in the time since.’
    He leaned forward slightly, his eyes still fixed on mine.
    â€˜How do you mean, “different”?’
    â€˜Different … I was hurting and vulnerable. I was feeling guilty about my mother and I needed … someone. Anyone to fill the void. To make me feel safe.’
    A laugh found its way out, but there was no humour in it. I certainly didn’t feel like laughing.
    I think he understood. He took hold of my hand and rubbed the backs of my knuckles gently with his thumb.
    â€˜And you thought you’d found him …’ The words fell in the gap between