Getting older should mean taking more things in your stride, developing a thicker skin. But the older I get and the longer I carry life’s baggage, the more my back aches.
Suddenly the doorbell rings. It’s just after 9 a.m. on a Sunday. Who on earth is that? I make my way over to the front door and swing it open.
“Hi, Mum! Thought I’d pop in. A client sent the company some local biscuits and jam and my boss gave them to me. Thought we could share them.” Penny bustles into the house, making her way to the kitchen. “How was the date? Did it go okay? Are you… okay?”
She places a gift basket on the counter and turns to me, her grey eyes wide with anxiety. Penny is a petite version of me: barely over five feet with that same pale complexion that never tans and similar strawberry blonde locks. Only she wears her hair longer, and never blurs the freckles on her nose with concealer like I tend to do.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying not to sound frustrated by this unexpected intrusion. “The date went very well. We’re meeting again on Tuesday.”
Penny pulls two mugs out of the cupboard and flicks the kettle on. “Great. And you remembered your medication today?”
“Not yet,” I say brightly. “I haven’t even had a chance to eat breakfast.”
“Mum…”
I can’t help but bristle at her condescending tone. “I am perfectly capable of managing my own life, you know.”
“I do know that.” Her voice is pleading. “I just worry, that’s all.”
“It’s okay.” I pat her shoulder, trying to gloss over the tension. “Like I said, I’m doing fine.” I change the subject. “I’m going to visit Grandma later.”
“Oh,” she says, her eyes brightening. “Can I come?”
“No, I’m sorry, not today.” I watch her pour hot water into the mugs.
She frowns. “Why not?”
Penny is in her mid-twenties now, but she’s still a baby to me, and when she frowns, she pouts like a child.
“I need to talk to her about my adoption.” I sigh. The word has a heaviness to it. “You remember I was writing a memoir, right?”
She nods.
“I’ve been putting this part off.”
“Grandma won’t mind talking about this stuff, will she?” Penny asks.
I shrug. “I honestly don’t know.”
All of a sudden, Penny’s arms are around my neck. She pulls me into her so tightly that I can smell her coconut shampoo.
“Mum, promise me we won’t leave things too late.”
I wrap my arms around her and a memory sweeps into my mind. Penny toddling down the garden of our first house in London. Her tripping over. Me picking her up, holding her as she sobbed. Her stepbrother, Nathan, laughing.
“I promise,” I say.
Penny wipes her cheeks as she pulls away.
We open a packet of fancy-looking shortbread and take our mugs of tea over to the sofa. I make a point of getting out my medication and taking it in front of her.
“By the way, Nathan and I have tracked down the guy who took that photo. I thought you might want to know.”
I set my mug down on the coffee table and lean in. “I do.”
She grabs her phone from her bag. “I’ll ping his handle over to you.”
“Handle for what? Twitter?”
