Its the late 1990 and summer holiday: Tristan(me) had been a single father for as long as our son could remember. Thirty-five years old, tired-eyed but soft, the kind of man who got stressed over everything—from late buses to slightly burnt toast. The mother had never really been in the picture, and in the fifteen years our son had been alive, our son hadn’t missed her. I did everything. Maybe too much, sometimes.