We are all deathly quiet but mum, at least, has an excuse. She’s got the machines to make noise on her behalf – the beeps and the breathing – and the doctors are kind of her spokespersons. Dad says nothing, seems lost, and I hate him for it. Say something, you pussy! If he doesn’t say anything, I can’t; and if I can’t then neither can my brother. It’s like this back in the house. Everything’s quiet there; everything’s wrong; everything’s out of balance. Only dad’s voice is heard, that is when he does speak. We eat only his choice of food and what he decides he can cook, even if what he decides is beyond him; we watch only his choice of telly, at least until he falls asleep drunk in his chair. The night it happened, I remember hearing him through the bedroom wall, asking mum if she’s all right over and over before finally calling the ambulance and then, when it arrived, him trying to explain and just messing the whole thing …