Growing up, home was a safe and happy place. My father was a successful businessman. He earned six-figures, which meant our mother could stay at home to look after us.
Financially, we were more than comfortable. Dad drove a flashy red sports car. We always had two family holidays a year, one abroad and one closer to home, to Jersey or the Scottish Highlands.
We lived in a large semi-detached house in a leafy, well-to-do part of Chiswick in west London, with a garden which as a child appeared to be almost the size of Windsor Great Park. We always received generous birthday and Christmas gifts, although we weren't spoilt.
But my childhood, as I knew it, came to an abrupt end in 1995, when I was 19.
One Sunday afternoon, my parents sat my 12-year-old sister, Hannah, and I down in the living room and said they were planning to get a divorce. I say parents, but only my father was there. Poor Mum was too upset and was still crying in the upstairs bathroom.
My father announced that he had met someone else. He told us how he was planning to leave the family home to move in with his new woman and her daughter on the outskirts of London.
I initially thought that he was joking, another prank from his rattle bag of practical jokes. Only this time his face didn't crease and collapse into a smile. He remained dead serious.
He obviously found it a difficult conversation because his hands trembled slightly as he told us. It was only when he stood in the doorway with a bag did it begin to sink in that he was actually going.
My first signs of anger didn't start to surface until he drove away.
Parental divorces can wreck any notion of security, and what once was solid ground can suddenly feel decidedly wobbly. Life felt uncertain, uprooted. My safety net had gone.
As part of my parents' divorce settlement, my mother kept the family home in Chiswick. We were now Family 2.0 but, without Dad, definitely an inferior version of the original.
Even though our father sent monthly maintenance payments until Hannah and I were adults and had left home, we did have to tighten our belts.
There would be fewer evenings out and takeaways. There would be only one local holiday a year now, if we were lucky. Meanwhile, my father bought a newer, bigger house with his new partner and took his new family on expensive holidays to the Caribbean.
After a while, my mother went out to work as a legal secretary. She found a nice new partner and some semblance of family life and stability returned, although things were never quite the same.
The same bond that we once had didn't return. The conversations were more stilted with this new man around; it was never as free-flowing, and all those shared experiences and years-old family jokes suddenly had to be explained.
My father enjoyed ten happy years with our stepmother, Caroline, and her teenage daughter, Sophie. We visited them regularly. We would all go out to dinner and to the cinema.
The visits were awkward at first, with many long silences punctuated by the clunking tick of an old clock.
We struggled to know what to say.
Caroline was always first to break the ice though, asking about our views and interests.
My sister and I nicknamed our stepmother Mum-Lite, a jovial dig at her status and a rather childish gag, as she was not as slim as our mother. As kind as she was, she could never take Mum's place.
But then in 2005, my father died unexpectedly, aged 63. My stepmother phoned early one morning. She told me Dad had been rushed to hospital in the middle of the night and had succumbed to a massive heart attack.
The same bond that we once had didn't return. The conversations were more stilted with this new man around; it was never as free-flowing, and all those shared experiences and years-old family jokes suddenly had to be explained.
The shock was immense. His death felt especially untimely as, at the age of 29, I'd only recently processed the pain of my parents' divorce.
My relationship with Dad had seemed to change in my 20s. From seeing him as a sage and fountain of knowledge when I was a child, now as a young adult, it sadly felt as though I was sharing banter with a friend down the pub rather than a father talking with his son.
Though I received lots of emotional support from friends, I became more anxious and often found it difficult to concentrate.
Then, just as I was trying to come to terms with the loss of such a loved one, my grieving process was blind-sided by another blow.
My sister and I were not written out of the will as such. It's just that we were granted much less than we expected. And I mean much much less.
After probate was settled, we both received a small sum.
Just enough for a holiday and a second-hand car. And maybe we should have been thankful for that. But we weren't because my stepmother and stepsister would receive the rest.
It was about a million pounds; enough for my stepmother to never work; and for my stepsister to get on the property ladder.
I wasn't grasping or trying to be grabby; but this felt like a second loss. It was like I had to start the grieving process all over again.
I felt cheated when I heard that I'd been left so little; and that these relative strangers would get it all. I did start to wonder how much our father had loved us; and at my lowest moments; if he had done so at all.
Inheritance loss means you have to grieve twice after a loved one has died. The normal grief at the loss of a precious parent is followed by crippling financial grief.
My sister and I were not written out of the will as such. It's just that we were granted much less than we expected. And I mean much much less
First came denial and disbelief. Surely this hasn't just happened? Have I imagined all this? How could I have been left so little?
At this time, I had a steady job in corporate PR and shared a rented house in Dulwich with good friends. Though I was comfortable and had a great social life, I had little money leftover at the end of a month to put towards savings or a house deposit. It was definitely a time when I could have used some extra cash - a tidy windfall.
My plans for the future had changed overnight. I realised I would now have to join the 'work-till-you-drop' generation that grafted until the end of their days, something I'd never been prepared for.
Given my prosperous early childhood, I expected to have a life cushioned by his inheritance, to be helped onto the housing ladder, to be able to retire in my late 50s, and live a comfortable life.
This realisation coincided with a period of self-loathing, in which I beat myself up for a while.
I started to blame myself for not seeing the signs. From what I knew of my father I should have known, really. And it wasn't as if he had not given me any clues.
He was a self-made man who believed others should make their own luck, too. He had worked hard and relied on his wits to carve out a successful career.
This self-reliance was something he had impressed on me from an early age: we always had to earn our own pocket money, whether that be from local newspaper rounds or cleaning cars.
How could I have been so foolish as to believe my father would leave me anything substantial?
This realisation coincided with a period of self-loathing, in which I beat myself up for a while.
It wasn't that I was looking to fund a lavish lifestyle. But the feeling nibbled away at me that it would have been nice to have been left enough to be able put some money away for later on in life.
Anger arrived next, and this took the form of passive-aggressive behaviour directed towards my stepmother and her daughter. I ignored them for a while and responded to their invites or requests with cynicism and curt remarks – and that was if I bothered to reply at all.
This didn't last long; however; about a year at most. And it corrected itself with a little dose of honesty and mature reasoning.
My father wouldn't have wanted this family rancour. And I reminded myself that my stepmother Caroline had been a source of great comfort and happiness to my father in the last decade of his life.
In the end, I was largely able to reach some kind of acceptance; and what a liberating feeling that was.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that my financial legacy was my father's wishes and I needed to accept and live by them.
It was also almost like he was sending me a message: that plans - including financial plans - sometimes change in life; and that things don't always go as planned.
Ironically; I think I've probably had more drive and ambition as a result of my father practically cutting me off.
I'd be lying if I said a little inheritance loss resentment still doesn't surface from time to time; especially sometimes in the cold light of morning; when the tough realities of life hit home; and when my bank account is nearing empty - again.
There was a particularly stressful day several years ago when I realised I only had £20 to my name. I was living in Surbiton, south-west London, and every bill and payment due had arrived at the same time.
Thankfully, things have improved immeasurably since. But a chunk of my father's money then sure would have come in handy.
This occasional lingering unease is not so much directed at my father, but at my stepmother and her daughter.
Sometimes when they invite me out to lunch or dinner it’s hard to watch them basking in relative luxury – good wine; the latest gadgets; every TV subscription under the sun – and the way they want for nothing.
This is in stark contrast to the humble lifestyles my mother; sister; and I have had to adapt to.
We tend to use things until they break now – be it cars; mobile phones or vacuum cleaners – rather than replace them every few years. There’s sometimes a sense that we should be enjoying – or have enjoyed – what they have.
Now at 49 years old; I am renting a flat privately and still don’t own my home; something I never expected to say; and which particularly rankles given my stepsister was able to get on the property ladder thanks to my father’s money.
And my inheritance loss sometimes still surfaces when I hear more fortunate friends mention the legacies heading their way after their parents pass away.
One friend in particular; an only son; is due four windfalls when his relatives die: legacies from two divorced parents; and a childless uncle and aunt.
At times like these I tend to keep quiet. I bite my tongue and remind myself that you cannot change the past.
Although I'm not wealthy, I'm healthy, so I consider myself still very much fortunate in this lottery called life.