Livvy sat beside him on the sofa, the flat of her palm on his back, knowing he needed time to absorb the information.
He had been home less than fifteen minutes from Sheffield. All afternoon Livvy had played the conversation with Imogen over in her mind, wondering how best to tell Dominic: whether to let him settle in after his first week away, or get the news over with quickly, like the swift ripping off of a plaster. She had made sure Leo was asleep by the time Dominic arrived and, in the end, the decision had been taken from her: he had known, immediately, that something was wrong, had pressed her to tell him what it was, and she had confessed the story of his mother’s visit.
‘I’m sorry you had to go through that. My mother should never have put you in that position.’
Livvy rubbed a hand across Dominic’s shoulders. ‘It’s not your fault.’ She paused, wondering whether he might be ready for questions. ‘So, did you know your dad was ill? I wasn’t sure if you’d seen her messages.’
Dominic did not lift his head from where it was pitched in his hands. ‘I’d seen them.’
Livvy waited a moment, needing to tread delicately this tightrope between her desire to help him and his need to process events. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I hate to think of you dealing with that on your own.’ She felt the rise and fall of his shoulder blades beneath the weight of her hand.
‘I’m sorry. I should have. It’s just . . . My parents have infected so much of my life, I didn’t want them infecting us too.’ He breathed deeply, emptied his lungs.
Livvy contemplated how she would feel if her father were in hospital, dying. It was unthinkable that she would not want to be by his side, ensuring that he knew how much she loved him. And the knowledge that Dominic’s experience was so different from hers made her wish that she could take his past away and rewrite it as a different, happier story. ‘I know you have really complicated feelings about your dad and I completely understand why you haven’t replied to your mum’s messages. But putting aside what’s best for them, do you think it might be good for you to see him before he dies?’
Dominic raised his head, stared at her as if perhaps she hadn’t understood anything he’d said about his family. ‘Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m going to see him.’
Livvy allowed herself a beat, knew the conversation ahead was littered with landmines. ‘I don’t mean because your mum’s asked you, or for your dad’s sake either.’ She reminded herself of the articles she’d read online that afternoon, about coping with the demise of an estranged or abusive parent. ‘The overriding memory you have of your dad is this all-powerful, tyrannical man. And that’s the version of him you’re still carrying inside you. But that’s not who he is any more. He’s an old man. He’s frail and weak. And perhaps if you saw him like that, it might . . . I don’t know . . . take away some of his power.’
Dominic was shaking his head before she had even finished speaking. ‘I can’t do it.’
Livvy consciously softened her voice. ‘I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you, and obviously I don’t know everything that went on in your childhood. I’m just trying to think about what’s best for you.’
When Dominic spoke, his voice was low, flat. ‘He doesn’t deserve a visit from me. Neither of them do.’ He drew in a deep breath, looked at Livvy and then away again. ‘One day, when I was twelve, I got home from school to find that my parents had cleared out my bedroom of everything I’d ever owned.’
He stopped abruptly, and his words took a moment to settle in Livvy’s head. ‘What do you mean?’
Dominic rubbed at a small stain on his trouser leg. ‘They’d got rid of everything. Thrown it all away. My books, my toys, my Lego, all the Airfix models I’d spent hours making and painting. Everything except my clothes – all gone.’
The explanation stumbled in Livvy’s mind, like a stuttering car engine that wouldn’t ignite. ‘Why? Why on earth would anyone do that?’
Dominic raised his shoulders to his neck and back down again, the movement slow, laborious, as though it had taken an inordinate effort. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But they must have given you a reason?’
Dominic shook his head. ‘My mum wouldn’t tell me. When I asked her, she just said, “You don’t need any of that any more.” Completely deadpan. She wouldn’t even look at me. I remember tugging on her sleeve, crying, begging her to tell me why they’d done it, but she just stood there, like a rod of iron, and wouldn’t tell me anything.’ Dominic exhaled slowly through a small gap in his lips.
‘But that’s . . . barbaric. Why would anyone do that, least of all to their own child?’
Dominic shook his head. ‘I still don’t know to this day. I asked my mum so many times when I was still living at home and she just refused to tell me. She said once that she’d go to her grave without ever telling me the reason why.’
The story swam in Livvy’s head, too restless to stay still. ‘What about your dad? Did you ever ask him?’
‘I wouldn’t have dared. I’d have probably got a beating just for daring to ask.’
Livvy tried to imagine the scene: a twelve-year-old boy discovering that all his worldly possessions had been disposed of, and the sense of bewilderment when nobody would tell him why. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how awful that must have been. Or why any parent would be so unspeakably cruel.’
Dominic shrugged. ‘It wasn’t as if that was the only cruel thing they ever did.’ He paused, and Livvy resisted the urge to fill the silence. ‘Every meal was like an endurance test. My dad couldn’t abide people talking during dinner so we had to eat in silence, every single night. I’d get sent to my room if I so much as coughed. And I can’t remember a time my mum ever tucked me up in bed, or read me a story. They were both just so . . . cold. I learnt to take care of myself and tried to avoid my dad’s rages.’
Livvy reached out, took hold of Dominic’s hand. ‘Why have you never told me all this before?’
There was a small shake of Dominic’s head, so slight she might have missed it had she blinked. ‘I think I was ashamed.’
‘Of what?’
For a few moments, Dominic said nothing, and when he began to speak, he kept his eyes trained firmly on the rainbow of spines lining the bookshelves. ‘It’s not easy to acknowledge that your parents hated you so much that they wanted to eradicate every trace of you.’
Livvy moved closer to Dominic, folded her body against his. ‘Whatever your parents did, it wasn’t your fault. You were a child. They were supposed to protect you and they failed. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.’ She felt him wince beneath her embrace. ‘What’s wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. I walked into a piece of machinery on site and whacked my shoulder. I’m fine – just a bit bruised.’ He offered her a valiant half-smile. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to dump all this on you on a Friday night when we haven’t seen each other all week. It’s not exactly the ideal homecoming, is it?’