It was time, time to tell the truth.
Not only mine, but my father’s.
Tomorrow is Saturday, and Chris is coming to visit Mum, much like he used to visit Dad.
Ashton had offered to come down to be here when Chris arrived.
Part of me wanted him here — wanted the comfort of his hand in mine.
Yet the part of me that was so much like my father, the part that made me a Wilson, said no.
I needed to do this alone.
Not just for me.
For Dad.
So, I went to Mum’s early.
Exposing myself to two days of watching her struggle.
I arrived before noon to find her in the kitchen mixing Dad’s favourite fruit cake.
It was my favourite too.
Every Sunday, Dad and I would pretend we were judges, scoring Mum on how well the cake had turned out.
If the fruit had sunk.
If it was over-baked.
If it was dry.
We’d give it a score out of ten.
Now, I hope Mum remembered how to make it.
I left her to do her baking and went into the sitting room to wait.
Chris arrived a little after lunch.
He looked older than I remembered.Smaller.
Lines etched into his face like a map of years I’d never lived.
Looking at him was almost like looking at Dad.
So much shared history.
So many memories.
Just how well did Chris know him?
Did he know about Dad?
About the men?
About the sex?
