The snow that were a glistening fleece this morning is now a muddy sleeve tightly compressed over the sidewalks, well on its way to becoming a glaze of black ice. Folk, like me, who stubbornly wear trainers with little to no friction regardless of season, waddle along the pavement with the risk of slipping on every step.

I've had to retire my skateboard as a method of transportation, likely for the rest of the year, and so my trip home is extra tedious. At least after finally accepting how garbage the battery life is, I've started to bring my phone charger to school and I've got my "ten instruments playing at once" playlist as a companion on the way home.

I consider lighting a zoot but can't find the energy to roll it. The clangour of music keeps Beewolf out of my mind even if I can feel it on my back.

I unlock the front door to be greeted by the scent of garlic and cilantro. Kicking my trainers off, I pull out my earphones to hear Nicolás's "hello" from the kitchen over his own 90s simp music. I respond only with a lingering "uh..."

I shuffle into the kitchen doorway with my jacket still on to find him in front of the hob, stirring whatever he's cooking.

A grimace twists my face. 'How are you home already?'

Beewolf starts to whisper "what if" scenarios in my ear. Finding Nicolás's voice through it is like digging for a straw of hay from the Saw II needle pit.

'I've got loads of overtime so I asked to leave early.'

This don't ease my confusion in the slightest: it could be the apocalypse and Nicolás wouldn't leave work early. He only leaves work early when I get in trouble...

He smiles at me as he lowers the heat beneath the pot. 'Thought we'd eat together.'

'Er... right.'

I retract into the entrance to peel off my jacket. I carry my backpack with me as I edge into the kitchen, looking for tripwires on the path. None go off before I reach my seat though I'm not slightly relieved. The explosives are hidden somewhere.

Nicolás has already laid the table. He carries the pot over, lodging it between small dishes of sliced avocado, crema de leche, and capers. The aroma of guascas in his vegetarian rendition of ajiaco makes my stomach rumble, but despite having eaten only half a sandwich in the past four hours, I don't touch the food.

So far in my life, when adults have summat serious to talk about, they've either decided to say nowt (because they're not my parents and kids find everything on the internet these days anyway) or screamed it at me when I'm standing at the door with my shoes and jacket still on. Nonetheless, the air is so thick with "we need to talk" even I recognise it.

Nicolás watches me over his own untouched bowl of ajiaco. 'How are you feeling?'

Innocuous on the surface, the question is saddled with full artillery. I try to figure out the answer that'll set off the handguns and not an atomic bomb, simultaneously as I retrace everything I can remember of the past week for what I've done to load his weapons.

He has had enough of you.

I'm too difficult. He's going to kick me out. Send me to that group home.

Should I be surprised? I'm less desirable than the mould he has diligently tried to scrub out of this house.

Nobody wants me. Nobody is ever going to. Not even Nicolás.

I've barely started a nod when I finally catch on. The weight is cut off only to be replaced by an equally daunting nothingness that leaves me floating into space with no tether to owt at all. Oh...

'I forgot.'

Realisation is followed by a strike of guilt that severs me in half.

I pick at my paper cut, undeterred by the pain that slices through my nerves when I tear off the protective flap of skin. 'I've just got so much other stuff on my mind.'

Silence suffocates me like a plastic bag tied over my head; I must be seconds away from blacking out when Nicolás pokes a few holes in it.

'That's a good thing, Cece.' His voice is soft but I can't bear to look at him.

I rasp to fill my lungs through the polyethene silence as subtly as I can and continue to hack at the bleeding wound on the side of my finger.

How could I forget? Has Nicolás been counting the days, dread growing like a vignette that tarnishes every moment he allows his thoughts to wander for a week now? Two weeks? More? And I would've let the day pass hadn't he said summat.

January fourth: today marks twelve years since our parents went on a holiday to Colombia that ended up being permanent.

Struggling as though someone has installed counterweights at the back of my eyes, I look at him. 'Are you fine?'

'Yeah...' He manufactures a smile. 'Well, it'll pass.'

Nicolás was eleven when our parents left. I was four.

Until now, I've always reckoned him the lucky one because he was old enough to understand why he suddenly had to live with people he's never met in a neighbourhood he can't navigate, why we couldn't live together because I was under ten and he was over and foster parents are advised to keep the children in their care within the same age bracket.

But maybe I've had it wrong: I've never known what I'm missing.

I don't remember a thing about our parents other than the scent of orchids, the rhythm of a salsa I can't name, and a trip to the sea on a rainy day, the taste of salt that hung to the air, the waves pawing the beach, the way sand got into my wellies to make them blister my skin: my first conscious recognition of the power of Pachamama, the coexisting fear and admiration that followed. The first and only time I saw the ocean.

Nicolás was the one who took me to and from reception, himself to school, who cleaned and did the washing even if he accidentally discoloured all our clothes, who went to the shops and did the cooking for the whole month we lasted until our neighbour rung NSPCC.

Nicolás was the one who had to explain everything to the police, who had to answer what must have been intrusive questions and endure the pity and inevitable racism without having the vocabulary to correct them.

Does Nicolás think of them as our parents in the abstract or are they Mamá and Papá, capitalised? Does he remember their birthdays, spot Mother's Day on the calendar and spring with excitement for gift ideas before he remembers she's not here to receive them, scan corny Father of the Year products before he catches himself? Does he spend nights ransacking memories for what he did wrong?

I only pieced the boulder together in hindsight. I was granted several years of ignorance to the weight of abandonment that must've been crushing him the whole time.

He carries it so effortlessly that I never considered it might be a burden.

I attempt to swallow the lump of larvae swelling in my throat enough to steady my voice. 'I'm sorry. I... We can... What would help you feel better?'

'I'd love it if we could eat together.'

Notes

Ajiaco: Colombian potato and chicken soup. Nicolás would obviously make it without chicken. 

Guascas: Potato weed. 

NSPCC: National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.