Every Saturday at 10 a.m. he arrives.
We wait on the landing
to see the old silver Cortina pass the shops.
We have around three minutes to get out
and run to the top of the cul-de-sac.
I don’t want him to pull up outside the house.
She will follow us out,
ask about money,
say we need new shoes
and anything else to keep him there a little longer,
in the hope he will look at her
and realise he has made a terrible mistake.
Instead, they argue.
She gets upset.
I have to leave her like that.
And I am anxious about the state I’ll find her in
when I come home that evening.
It takes around fifteen minutes to get
to his new set‑up.
I am sick most weeks.
He is cross with me for not telling him,
so he could pull over
rather than it go all over his seats.
I try every time,
but I just can’t seem to speak.
My brother gets the job
of cleaning the car seat.
He doesn’t complain.
He does it for me.
We are a team on Saturdays.
Despite the age difference,
we stick together.
He speaks for me
when it is too painful
for me to utter a word.
I spend the day following my dad around.
He is always busy
building or fixing
in his new house.
I find any job I can
to earn my place beside him.
Dustpan and brush in hand,
cleaning up,
bringing him drinks,
anything to carve out some time,
desperate for him to notice me.
Sometimes we are taken swimming,
or somewhere fun.
But mostly we hang around,
getting in the way,
while he builds his new life
and we are left
to pick up the pieces
of what he left behind.
Dinner time comes.
Not long now
until I can return home
and check on her.
I worry she won’t be there again
and one of her friends
will greet us instead.
Dread fills my body
as I look at my plate
and see there is only one thing I will eat.
You make me sit there
until I finish it all.
But I won’t.
I would sit there forever.
It is the only control I have
in this hand I’ve been dealt.
I know he loves us.
But it’s not enough.
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