Her sketchbook always travelled with her when Jo stayed at her father’s house. While drawing a castle, felt-tips strewn, she slurped sugary cereal. The cereal box lived in her overnight bag alongside tuna and pasta.

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“You’ll need it,” her mother’s hollow laugh.

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In the gloomy kitchen, Jo switched on the spotlight as the bleak morning sky hid behind beige blinds. The light cast a beam over her pens. She selected blue for the moat, pretending not to notice her father’s stooped shoulders and the way grey sprinkled his goatee beard. Red for the turrets. Each felt tip squeaked, emitting a solvent-like whiff.

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Her ambition was to one day become a stained-glass window designer after visiting an art museum with her parents when they were still together. Sunlight had danced on the walls in patterns of yellow and blue. That trip was the best memory she had of her parents, the only thing that made her forget their drunken fights. The aftermath. Her mother vacant-eyed, curtains drawn, surfaces littered, her father absent for days.

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Whenever Jo drew, she visualized stained-glass, high up, light pouring through. She wanted to brighten gloomy corners of buildings, with colours and patterns. Then she dismissed her dream, telling herself she would never be good enough. She scrunched her castle drawing into a ball to throw in the trash can.

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“That looks good, can I keep it?” her father placed his hand on her shoulder. She smoothed out the picture with pigment-stained fingers, nails chewed and attached it to his fridge to humour him. Subsequent stays produced similar art. Time after time she tried to destroy her drawings, but her father asked to display them. Now a kaleidoscope, his fridge was freshly stocked with cheese, apples, fish, all Jo’s favourite foods.

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Instead of using spotlights, they opened the blinds, letting sunlight beam through. However, one weekend, thundery clouds gathered, rain pelted, and Jo did not have her felt tips. While gazing at rain teeming and chewing her nails, her father surprised her. He’d dusted off his old easel, acrylics ready, and they painted a castle together.

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Years later at her own exhibition, as a successful stained-glass designer, her parents mingled, their new partners in tow. A castle prevailed; colours rippled through light boxes, pirouetted the floor. Jo talked to collectors, took photos; her manicured nails positioned the camera. Her father approached.

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“What do you think, Dad?” she said.

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“It looks good.” His words, though they were always the same, predictable words, were like milk and honey on a balmy day, like cinnamon cake melting her tongue, making her nostalgic for a childhood she never had. His unsurprising answer was expected, yet perhaps this time she believed him.