Sunday 30 January 1994: Early in the afternoon my sister Arette and her husband arrive on their motorbike, having spent the morning visiting our father in a nearby rest-home. It has been some time since we shared at a deeper level, and today is to be one of those days. She wants to talk, and does just that for over three hours.

She speaks of her relationship with her father, of her long-term struggle to resolve old hurts and reach a point of peace. "You know, Jan," she says, "I think I've almost completed my business with dad." She goes on to talk at length about her son and daughter, both of whom are emerging from traumatic periods in their lives, and how overjoyed she is to see them settled and happy at long last. "For the first time ever I feel they're really independent and don't need me any longer." She speaks of the visit she and Dai had made last weekend to stay with her ex-husband and his new partner. "It's so good that he seems happy; I don't need to feel guilty any longer about leaving him."

It is time to go. As she stands at my front door pulling on warm leggings and crash helmet, her last words to me are, "And, Jan, after forty-six years I realise I'm not you." I have never seen her so alive, so confident, so ready for whatever the future might hold.