When I was five, it was just Daddy and me.

He didn’t walk in the door with bags of sweets anymore. He had to pick me up from school every day instead. He had no sweets with him.

He didn’t slurp up spaghetti with me anymore. He had to cook fish fingers and chips for us every day instead. He didn’t slurp anything up.

He didn’t play I Spy with me when we skipped through the park anymore. He had to answer his phone instead. He didn’t skip.

When he shouted at people, I dreamt I was a fairy princess, floating high in the sky above the pink clouds, in charge of all the land beneath. I could block out the loud noise with a wave of my glittery wand. The shouting stopped, and I sang in my head. Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly…

When I was six, it was just Daddy and me.

He picked me up from school and pulled out a bag of sweets from his pocket. ‘You’ve waited long enough,’ he said.

He cooked spaghetti and slurped with me. ‘Sorry it’s so dry,’ he said.

He skipped through the park with me and asked, ‘do you remember what game we used to play?’

When he shouted at people, I still dreamt I was a fairy princess, but I didn’t need to use my glittery wand so much.

When I was seven, Mummy came home.

She forgot for a very long time, but she remembers now. I think I should hold onto my glittery wand though. Just in case.