‘You stink.’ Dad pulled me from the small cupboard under the stairs. My legs were stiff and I stumbled, too ashamed to admit I’d been unable to control my bladder, but the stench of urine gave me away. The look of disgust on his face made me feel smaller than I’d ever felt before. The rug in the hallway skidded on the floorboards and I lost my footing again, as Dad gripped my elbow, propelling me forward.

‘Go and get cleaned up. Mum will be home soon and then we’ll talk.’

‘What’s the point when you won’t listen?’ Every ounce of logic inside told me I should keep quiet but the words burst from me. ‘I want Jake. Jake loves me.’

‘Love,’ Dad spat as he dragged me up the stairs. It was awkward with both of us squeezed between the two wooden bannisters. I slipped, my feet scrambled for traction, but he didn’t once loosen his grip. In that moment I drank everything in, the yellowing gloss paint chipping from the rail, the way the carpet was darker at the edges, the wallpaper curling above the skirting boards. It was if I knew this would be the last time I would see them and I had to memorise every last detail.

‘I’ll tell you what love is. It’s marrying the girl stupid enough to fall pregnant. The giving up on your own dreams to support a family you didn’t want.’

We reached the top of the stairs, and I faced Dad; my eyes searched his face for some sign of affection.

‘You’re talking about Mum? About me?’ I felt winded. I knew Dad wasn’t exactly paternal but I never once thought he didn’t want me. I thought his strictness was a sign of love, not fear of me repeating the same mistakes. ‘You didn’t want me?’

‘Not just me. Mum had plans of her own but her parents were Catholic. She couldn’t have an abortion.’

‘And that’s what you wish, I’d been aborted?’ I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing.

‘Oh don’t look all wide-eyed, Kat. We made the best of it. We’ve been good parents, haven’t we?’

‘You locked me in a cupboard!’

‘Only to stop you running off. We’ve encouraged you to work hard. Follow your dreams.’

‘You’ve encouraged me to follow your dreams. I never wanted to be a doctor. I want to be an actress.’ I was screaming.

‘Well you had us fooled running around with that layabout.’

‘Jake isn’t a layabout, he’s—’

‘Not in your life any more is what he is. We can get you into a private clinic. Get this sorted out before uni starts.’

‘This,’ I placed my hands over my belly. ‘This is your grandchild.’

‘It’s nothing but a mass of cells.’

‘It is my baby!’ My throat was raw as the words were ripped from me.

‘You will ruin your life.’ Dad’s voice raged over mine, and everything I knew I should do and say to calm him down, buy me some time, was eclipsed by one simple fact I could not contain.

‘I love Jake.’ My voice was quiet but firm and, even to me, my words rang true.

It was as though Dad aged as he ran his fingers through his thinning hair. I felt a pang of loss for the father who was slipping away from me, as well as for the father I wanted him to be, but summer-sunshine picnics and Sunday-afternoon-games-of-Monopoly were never part of our family. I vowed it would be different with my child. Behind Dad, through the landing window, I watched wisps of clouds float by, and I could almost see my ambition being swept away with them, but as strong as the pull of the stage was, the craving of applause, I couldn’t imagine anything better than days spent making potato paint prints and moulding wild animals from Playdoh. The desire to hold my baby sparked a quiet determination in me that chased away my fear. My longing grew hotter and brighter.

‘I won’t have an abortion.’ My eyes locked onto Dad’s and I thought I saw sorrow but then his eyes grew cold and hard as he clutched my elbow once more.

‘You’ll do what I bloody well tell you.’ He began to shake me. I tried to push him away but his grip was strong. A primal urge to protect my baby kicked in. I shook my arm free and placed both hands on his chest. My palms were burning hot and tingling as I pushed as hard as I could.

The world slowed and stopped. I became keenly aware of the thickness in the air, the terror on Dad’s face as he began to fall backwards down the stairs, his arms windmilling. Automatically, I sidestepped so he couldn’t drag me down with him. Each bump was sickening. His body bounced and twisted and, as he landed at the bottom, his head cracked against the hard wooden floor. I covered my face with both hands. The silence was weighted with guilt as I waited for a groan, the sound of movement, for redemption, but there was nothing except my heart punching my ribs. It took an age before I splayed my fingers and looked at my father lying face down on the floor below me, his leg at an awkward angle, a trickle of blood seeping from underneath his head.

There are so many things I could have done. So many things I should have done. But as I descended the stairs – my legs trembling, my palms still hot and tingling – and stepped over his motionless body, it wasn’t to reach the phone and call for help. It was to reach the front door. I was numb to everything except the thought of reaching Jake. And it haunts me to this day that I didn’t hesitate on the step for a single second.

I didn’t look back.

I ran.