We both shake our heads.
“We thought that note was for Dad,” I mutter. “He didn’t let us read it.”
Mum presses her hands over her eyes and sobs. “It explained everything. I told you how much I loved you and wanted to be with you but that I had to get well first.”
“Even if that’s true, you didn’t come back,” Beau spits.
“I know. I’m sorry. I genuinely thought you’d be better off without me. I tried to contact you. Step nine of recovery of the AA programme is to make amends where possible. I wrote to you.”
Beau and I stare at each other.
I break the silence. “We never got a letter. We never got anything from you.”
Mum twists her thumbs into her sleeves. “Maybe social services decided not to give the letter to you. But I wrote. I swear I did.”
“We didn’t need you to write,” Beau mutters. “If you’d really wanted to make amends, you’d have come and found us.”
“I already told you—”
“You thought we were better off without you.” Beau shakes his head.
“Were you?” she asks. “Were you okay in foster care?”
“Yes,” I reply. “We got to stay together, and we were placed with a great family.”
“That’s not the point,” Beau hisses. “We needed you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you still drink?” I ask.
“No. I’ve been sober for twelve years.” As she speaks, she sits straighter, rolls her shoulders back, and lifts her chin.
“You remarried?” Beau asks.
“Yes. His name is Richard. We met at AA meetings.”
“You have kids?” I ask.
“Two. A boy and a girl. Heath is ten, and Jemima is eight.”
“Does Richard know about us? Do our half-siblings know about us?”
Mum drinks some coffee with shaking hands. “Richard does.”
“Are you going to tell them?” Beau asks.
“Maybe, when they’re older.” She shakes her head as she speaks. “They’re just babies.”
Beau glares at her. “So were we.”
“Tell me about yourselves. Please?”
I’m not sure I appreciate the change of subject. On the other hand, Mum must feel like she’s being interrogated or that we’re ganging up on her. Maybe we are. I don’t intend to, but everyone’s emotions are running high. There was never any way this was going to be a happy, breezy conversation. Surely, Mum had to have known that when she agreed to meet us?
Beau tugs his hand through his hair. “I don’t think I can do this. I’m not even sure I believe you.”
Mum sobs again. “I deserve that. I’m sorry for everything. But I couldn’t be a mum to you. I was sick. I did what I thought was best.”
