The next morning was Saturday, the day of the party. And I woke early to a text from Dad calling a family meeting at Annabelle’s. I left my local bakery with a bag of croissants and stepped into the sunny but cold morning with my stomach cramping. What was Dad going to say? He must have come to a decision. Or maybe he had something else to confess to? He had a third family? He had cancer? He had a secret bunker and classified information from the government that chemical warfare was imminent and we needed to take what was in front of us and move immediately to an indefinite subterranean lifestyle?
As I hopped on a bus I scanned the party checklist on my phone. Everything was running smoothly. Nearly all of the 150 people had confirmed, the caterers had finally got their heads around the menu, the function room at the local pub had been decorated, Mum’s dress had arrived from the online eco-shop, Dad’s tux had been dry-cleaned and the Van Morrison cover band had been given their playlist. All we had to do now was turn up.
Annabelle’s flat was quiet when I let myself in. Marcus had taken Hunter and Katie to the park to give us some space. Dad and Mum were in Annabelle’s armchairs, side by side, holding hands, and Annabelle was sat on the sofa across from them. I put the paper bag of croissants on the coffee table next to a tray of untouched tea and took my spot on the sofa next to my sister. It was pretty much the same configuration as three weeks ago except the sofa bed wasn’t out, I wasn’t covered in Wotsits and suffering a roofie comedown and Mum wasn’t ‘soiled by E-numbers’ as she’d taken to saying.
‘We’ve come to a decision,’ Dad said. He had dark circles under his eyes and his skin was ashen. It had taken its toll on him.
‘And?’ I said, impatient to hear the outcome so I could book my therapy accordingly.
This was it. Make or break.
Which would we be? The ‘made it’ ones or the broken ones? Dad’s eyes rested on me, then Annabelle and finally fell on Mum, who instantly erupted into agonising, inconsolable tears.
I gasped.
Annabelle, who had remained stoic through the entire period, crumpled like a discarded string puppet.
We were the broken ones.
I was stunned. Even though, in the back of my mind, I knew this was the choice he would make, the choice he should make, I didn’t think it would ever actually happen. My dad, who I knew loved me, who I knew loved Annabelle, who I knew adored my mother, was leaving us.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Dad said, his voice cracking. ‘I’ll . . .’ He gripped Mum’s hand. ‘We’ll start to tell people after the party. I’ll go back to Cape Town and tell Annika and Maryna.’ He wiped tears from under his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry . . . about everything.’ His mouth twisted and he covered his face with a wrinkled, tanned hand, his shoulders shuddering with his muffled sobs.
Annabelle, tears streaming down her perfect cheeks, rushed across the room and fell at his feet, her legs tucked underneath her. ‘Dad, no,’ she cried. She gripped him with her thin arms, her head resting on his lap and her chestnut hair falling across his knees.
Dad clutched her. Tears dripped from his chin as he said sorry over and over again.
