I took the concept of “home” for granted for a long time. I thought it was a place, a constant, a given. I never understood, until things changed, that “home” was something my parents actively built around me, all the time – a construction, a collection of comforting samenesses, a privilege. The fact that I got to have a dad at all – let alone such a marvellous, funny, devoted one – is among the luckiest coincidences of my life. And for months after he died, I didn’t understand what happened next. My home was dead too, I thought. My family was broken.