By the time my husband and I realised the garage had flooded, it was too late. Black mould had crept up the sides of the cardboard boxes and dark, stinking fingers had clawed their way into our belongings.

We hired a dumpster measuring four cubic metres and, with a utility knife, slit the cartons open one by one. It was like cutting loose the guts of your history and letting it bleed onto the damp floor. Among the dozens of letters were a few from you, Dad. This one was written 24 years ago and sent to 15-year-old me on a student exchange in Germany. ‘A Wednesday evening and I am alone with my computer!’ you wrote. ‘And classical music at high volume for company, with Pat not here to rein me in.’