“She wanted to keep that one too, but I put my foot down.”
“Why?” He’s just told me he found it in a box, so he can’t have cared about it that much.
“Your mum had the negatives. She was going to get copies, but I guess she never did?”
“Not that I know of,” I reply quietly.
“Never got around to it.”
Maybe it was too painful a task, to be reminded of the time leading up to you abandoning us.
I don’t voice my thoughts out loud. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make sense of my dad’s rejection and we don’t have the sort of relationship where we talk openly to each other.
I was much more vocal as a teenager, much more willing to speak up if I felt that something was unfair. I’d bounce back from the myriad little rejections that I faced whenever I came to visit, from Sheryl snapping at me over something small to Dad failing to chastise Bailey for being a brat to me.
But I’ve long since given up fighting for my dad’s time and attention. These days, I prefer to accept the situation for what it is, which is that Sheryl and Bailey are his priorities and I’m farther down his list.
I’m tougher than I used to be, not because I fight, but because I don’t. That’s the way I cope, the way I ensure that things don’t hurt me as much as they used to.
That’s not to say that they don’t still hurt to some degree, though.
“Can I take it upstairs with me?” I ask Dad about the photo album.
“Sure you can. Did you find the caravan key?”
“Not yet.”
“Check the middle drawer on the right,” he instructs.
I open the drawer in question and find a whole bunch of keys. I wouldn’t know where to start, but luckily, Dad comes over. He rattles around, discarding this set and that before finally pulling out a flimsy-looking key ring with two small silver keys attached.
“I reckon this is them.” He hands them over.
“Thanks.”
I take the photo album upstairs first and lay it carefully on my bedside table, resting my hand on it as though it’s a precious, living thing.
I have to blink to clear my vision before returning downstairs.
7
Wren!”
Sheryl is calling me.
I climb down from Bambi, gratefully breathing in the fresh air.
It’s what I’m calling the Airstream now. A name as cute as that doesn’t need an article.
“Would you run this down to the Fredricksons?” Sheryl asks when I appear round the side of the barn. She’s holding up a bottle of what looks like fizz and a jar of the peach puree she made earlier.
“Thank-you gift?” I ask as I approach.
“Yep.”
“Shall I change first?” I glance down at my grime-splattered charcoal-gray shirtdress.
She shakes her head dismissively. “They’re farmers. They won’t think twice about what you look like.”
