She looked back at the photo of Stella. Why had she abandoned her friend so easily? She tried to recall those holidays before uni started, but it was a blur. An endless stream of parties and party drugs, one night blending into the next.
She felt sick in her stomach now, the nauseous churn of self-hatred. She thought of the Peloton. A sweat session was her usual cure for feelings like this. Instead, she opened her laptop.
Stella Austinshe typed in the search bar on Facebook.
There she was. Tears prickled Issy’s eyes as she studied the photo of her friend, holding a chubby baby, a shiny scar stretching from her temple to her chin.
She clicked onMessageand started to type.
DNA Sleuths Facebook Group
Natalia Gomez:Hi all, I thought I’d post an update on my situation for those who like a happy ending. As some of you will remember, I was contacted by a man who seemed to be my mother’s brother according to his DNA results. Mum and I worked up the courage to speak to her parents about it, andZelda Merlinoyou were right! It turns out my nan and pop had a baby boy when they were just sixteen and were forced to give him up for adoption. They stayed together, marrying at 20 and having my mum at 22, then my two aunties. My grandmother says she still dreams about her baby boy all these years later. He came to our house for dinner last night and she cried the whole time. Amazing to think that we didn’t even know he existed until a few weeks ago. Anyway, to those of you who are looking for answers, keep the faith. You never know what’s just around the corner.
Top comments
Fergus Schmidt:Thank youNatalia. I needed to hear this
Karen Finn:How sad that he has spent so much of his life without his parents, when they ended up together anyway! I would feel so ripped off if I were him!!
Natalia Gomez:Yes, but so great they have been reunited now!
Wendy Turner:What a beautiful outcome. I shed a little tear reading this just now. It must feel like a miracle for your grandparents.
Natalia Gomez:It really does. Miracles do happen!
Chapter 67
Christmas Day, One Year Later
Meg stood at the kitchen bench, rereading the Jamie Oliver recipe for the sixth time to make sure she had the timing right. She didn’t even like turkey, it was always so dry. A roast chicken was nicer, but it was Christmas, after all. The first step in the method was a little pep talk about the recipe being ‘nice and simple’, which she’d found strangely comforting. It was the reason she’d chosen this recipe over a similar Neil Perry one, which was a little irrational, obviously, but she’d always had a soft spot for Jamie.
According to her calculations—based on the size of the turkey and her knowledge of the oven, which was on the hotter side—it was time to pull it out.
There were footsteps in the hall and Pete appeared. ‘How’s my little Nigella going?’ he asked, a light hand on her back as she studied the turkey through the oven door.
She pulled a face. ‘It’ll be a Christmas miracle if this turkey is edible. Can you help me get it out?’
Once the enormous bird was on the bench, they shrugged.
‘Looks okay,’ Pete said.
She reached for a knife and stuck it into the thigh, as directed by Jamie. Clear juice ran out. Pete literally hooted. Meg laughed.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Show time,’ he said, going to answer it.
Excited voices filled the hall, exchanging kisses and Christmas greetings. Meg wiped her hands on a tea towel and looked up to see Georgie, followed by Chrissy and Robbie, and Shirley and Bruce, her grandparents, who had travelled down from Queensland to share their first Christmas as a family. She forced back tears as she hugged them, one by one, and led them out the back.
‘Everyone’s here, Mum,’ Meg said to Jenny, who was resting on a sun lounge in the shade of the frangipani tree.
Jenny’s head moved ever so slightly to see them, and she smiled weakly, glassy-eyed. She was non-verbal since the stroke a few months before.
Shirley pulled a chair over to sit beside her eldest daughter and took her hand.
‘Drinks!’ Pete said. ‘Beer, Robbie?’
Meg smiled watching the interaction. Robbie’s progress since receiving proper treatment for his back injury had been swift. The wheelchair was gone. Movement in his back was still limited, but he was pain free and off the oxycontin, and even working a few hours a week. Issy had got him into the best specialists and covered the costs. ‘Please, let me do this,’ she’d said, when Robbie objected.
‘Hello?’ a voice called from down the hall.
