When I get to the garage at 6:30, I see Dad’s yellow Peugeot parked outside. He doesn’t wave or raise a hand as I pull in to park, nor does he say hello when I get out of the car and walk over. The only affection he shows is towards my dog, who bounds over to greet him.
“Hello Tyson, hello boy,” he says, scratching the bull mastiff’s ears.
“That’s Buster,” I say. “Tyson was the dog we had when I was little.”