‘I’ve thought about Dad a lot over the years,’ I begin. ‘In spite of myself, I still miss him. Have you ever tried to find him? Do you know if he’s still alive?’
He looks at me, puzzled. ‘Dad?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘He must have had you around the same time as he left my mum and me.’
‘I have no idea who my father is,’ he replies, and now it’s my turn to be puzzled.
‘Then how are we related?’
‘We share the same mum.’
I push back in my seat. ‘Mum?’ I repeat. ‘I think there’s been some mistake. You and I share the same dad, not mum.’
‘Not according to my birth certificate.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Please, take a look.’ He reaches inside his satchel and withdraws a brown padded envelope stuffed with papers. He rummages around until he finds the one he is looking for. It’s a birth certificate, issued in Northampton. It says ‘unknown’ under his father’s name, but his mother is listed as Margaret Simmonds. It’s also my mum’s date of birth, but her occupation has been left empty. ‘It can’t be her,’ I say.
Bobby nods his head. ‘I looked her up on the electoral register and found her here in Northampton, and discovered she also had a daughter still living with her. I did a bit of research through Facebook and found you, as I didn’t know if I should approach Margaret or not. I’m sorry, this must be coming as a shock.’
‘Bobby,’ I say firmly. ‘I’d have remembered if my mum had been pregnant and had another baby. That’s not something you can hide.’
Then I think back to how I had hidden it from my mum up until the day I went into early labour. Could she really have disguised something like this from me? After all, it must have been around the time my world collapsed in on itself. Then I think again about what the doctor said last week about the antidepressants I thought I was taking at the time. Surely she couldn’t have been drugging me to hide thatshewas pregnant? No, that’s ridiculous.
But when I look again at the birth certificate, a cavern opens up inside me. Bobby’s date of birth matches the one I’ll never forget. Then I realise I haven’t looked at the name he was given on the certificate. When I read it, my stomach drops like I’ve been hurled from the top of a skyscraper – Dylan Simmonds.
‘Dylan?’ I gasp.
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Bobby is a nickname I’ve had since I was a kid because of my Christian name. You know, as in Bob Dylan.’
We have both got this so very, very wrong. Bobby isn’t my half-brother. Bobby is Dylan. And Dylan is my son, not the lost daughter I have pined for all these years.
CHAPTER 47
NINA
TWO YEARS EARLIER
My brain doesn’t know what to do with itself. It has never been more confused, angry or elated, all at once. Unless this is an elaborate and cruel scam and Bobby’s birth certificate is a forgery, the daughter I have mourned for twenty-two years never existed.Shewas in fact born ahe, andheis still very much alive. The baby my mum told me was stillborn was no such thing. How do I begin to make sense of this?
I arrive home and close the front door as quietly as I can. I need to get my thoughts in some kind of order before I confront Mum. But I’ve been heard.
‘Is that you, Nina?’ she says from inside the kitchen.
‘Yes,’ I reply, my jaw tensed.
‘You’re late.’
‘One of the deliveries was delayed,’ I lie.
I hear the clinking of dishes and the running of water. ‘There’s some hotpot left if you’re hungry, it’s still in the slow cooker,’ she says. ‘Oh, and there’s an apple crumble in the fridge too. The sell-by date was yesterday but it should still be good.’
Her tone is light and almost melodic, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Like everything is perfectly normal. And in her world, it is. But mine has been turned upside down and had its insides ripped out. Things have been done to me that I have no idea about, and it makes me so frustrated and isolated that I want to hurt myself just to relieve the pain.
Her voice alone makes me want to scream and slap her across the face. I need to hold back. I need cold, hard facts before I decide what to do next. I need to go back to the start.
She comes into view, wiping her soapy hands on her apron. I’m looking at her with fresh eyes. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she asks.
