I turn back to my mother.
“We made a lot of dumb mistakes. But many of them were out of love for you.”
I don’t say anything. It’s Mum’s big plea for understanding, and while I do understand, I still feel so incredibly sad. What if I’d known? What if I’d actually known? How would I have felt at fifteen?
“He was your father, Olive,” she says, rubbing her temples as though she has a migraine coming on. “He raised you. He loved you. We both made a mistake keeping the truth from you, and I’ve regretted it for years and years.”
I reach down into my bag and pull out my wallet. Unzipping the compartment at the back, I pull out the Polaroid of me and Dad. The one where I’m holding an ice cream and my dad is looking at me,beamingat me. I hand the photo to my mum.
“He loved me,” I say. “I do know that. I just feel like I didn’t have the full story. Like maybe I would have acted differently when you two split up.”
“That’s my fault,” she says, her voice wavering now. “I was so frustrated with him.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve just always felt like, over those ten years, that it was me keeping distance, you know? But I do think now that a part of him was scared to push me.”
Mum nods. She knew it too.
“He begged me not to tell you. I felt so guilty about everything, I agreed,” she says, confirming my suspicions.
After a minute, she says, “How do you feel, Olive?”
“Heartbroken,” I say.
I feel the tears falling down my cheeks. My heart breaks for my dad, who fell in love with me as a baby and took me on as his own. I take the photo off my mum, and through tears, I see the love in his eyes, the look of pride on his face, and I start to cry, heavily. The depth of the ache is physical. It hits me like a punch to the stomach and I cry out in agony at the pain of it. The pain is so hollow I find myself desperate for breath. There is nothing there. No way to tell him I love him. No way to thank him. He’s gone. My love has nowhere to go, and my regret can never be atoned for.
“I’m so sorry, Olive,” my mum says, as I slump on the table and cry.
33
GINNY AND KATEare waiting for me outside my house when I get back. As soon as I see them the tears start again. But this time, they are tears of relief to be back somewhere safe. With my friends. In their arms.
“Let’s get you inside,” Ginny says, opening the door to my house as she leads me into the lounge room. They’ve tidied up. Like, it’s immaculate. There are flowers on the kitchen table.
I read the little card attached to the flowers.
Dearest O. We love you. You are loved. Kate & Ginny xx
“How long did it take you to agree on the message?” I say, holding the card out to both of them, sniffing as my tears subside.
“Kate’s wording,” says Ginny, shrugging. “On this I had to let her win.”
Kate shrugs. “I just want you to see clearly that the most important truth in all of this is that you are loved, Olive. By us and your mum and dad. Loved so much.”
I nod slowly.
“Yep,” I say. “But every time I look at it from a new angle, I get confused.”
“I’m going to make us a cocktail,” says Ginny unhelpfully.
“Can we just have tea?” Kate says, frowning at Ginny.
“I know a good cocktail with peppermint tea. It’s with gin. Do you have gin?”
“Ginny!” I say, laughing now.
“I’m sorry, it’s just such a historical event, it feels like we need to drink,” she says, frowning.
I flick the kettle on and tap a chair, indicating Ginny should sit, and Kate goes to the cupboard to grab a few mismatched mugs and the tea.
