SEVENTY-NINE.

I take my father's favourite meal out of the oven. The cheese is bubbling, and it has charred nicely on top of the cottage pie.

Because my father cannot eat red meat, and he's not a massive fan of chicken. I had to use lentils. He is also very critical when it comes to balancing the gravy ingredients correctly, so it has to be homemade rather than store-bought.

I tilt my nose upwards and take a long deep breath through my nose, breathing in the fresh aromas wafting through the house. My mouth waters, causing my belly to rumble, and I try to think back to when my last proper meal was.

Snacking on dried fruit or drinking multiple cups of coffee isn't highly classified as eating healthy, is it?

I placed the baking dish on top of the wooden breadboard next to the Greek salad I had prepared earlier as I waited for the pie to bake.

Settling into my chair across from my father, I look at him through eyes that are consumed by grief and exhaustion.

He hasn't spoken more than three words to