Page 69 of Sinful Promises

She blinked hard a few times as if trying to get them to focus, and cleared her throat. “Well, that’s the only good thing about all these drugs they’re pumping into me. I don’t actually feel anything.”

Much like the drugs you’ve taken all your life, I wanted to say. But didn’t. I didn’t want to get off to a bad start. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes please.”

Standing, I pulled the bedside trolley up to the bed until it was positioned across her chest. The perfect position for her to see all the things I’d found.

While she sipped her drink, I flipped open the lid on the wooden box at my side and plucked out the photo of Rob—the man who’d pretended to be my father. She placed the cup on the tray, and I placed the photo beside it.

Her eyes bounced from the photo to me. She blinked at me, and I was pretty certain it wasn’t because she couldn’t see me. She was trying to work out what to say.

I tapped the photo. “Tell me about him.”

She scrunched up her face and flicked her hand. “You already know about him. He’s your father.”

“He’s not my fucking father.”

“Daisy, don’t swear at me.”

“So, don’t lie to me.”

She rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t a lie. I told you yesterday—he may not have been your biological father, but he was the man who raised you.”

“Why?”

She did a double-take. “Why what?”

“Why did he raise me?”

“What kind of question is that? He loved you. That’s why.”

“Oh my god.” Her response made me want to vomit. “He never loved me. He never even loved you. But he stayed. Why?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look, Mother, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Her jaw dropped and the glare in her eyes bordered on hatred. “What do you want from me? My whole frigging life story?”

“Yes, actually. It’s long overdue. Why don’t we start from when you ran away from home at fifteen?”

“Oh, God.” She wobbled her head, reached up, and using the triangle over the bed, adjusted her position on the mattress. Then she trained her eyes on me. “There’s nothing to tell. I lived wherever I could. Slept on hundreds of people’s sofas. Even slept in a few bus shelters. I dug through rubbish bins for food when I needed to and got fed at homeless lodgings when possible. There. Aren’t you glad to find out how desperate I was?”

Not willing to stop, I said, “When did you and Rob get married? Was it before or after I was born?”

Closing her eyes, she huffed. “We never got married.”

“What?” That was a shocker. “Okay then. So, what’s his surname?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Why not? Shouldn’t I know the name of the man who pretended to be my father?”

She cleared her throat, and I could tell she was uncomfortable revealing that piece of my puzzle. But I couldn’t fathom why it was so hard.

“Mathieson. His name was Robert Mathieson.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

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