Page 52 of Good Bad Girl

“You might think I’m crazy...” she would often say, and I confess I sometimes did. “But the whole of China agrees with me. The number four is bad luck. It means death. That’s why there is never an option for a fourth floor in Chinese elevators.”

I have never been to China, neither has Mum, but she takes numbers very seriously.

When I unwrapped my eighteen gifts, I was careful not to tear the paper, but keen to see what was inside. There were books, clothes, a new papercutting knife, a beautiful pair of earrings, but the one thing I wanted most was not there.

“You promised,” I said. Promises were like contracts in our family of two.

Mum nodded and looked sad. I can still picture her face now, and I remember feeling grateful that she didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. She had promised to show me my birth certificate when I was eighteen, I’d already been waiting years to find out the truth about my father.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t.”

The rage I felt was all-consuming. Because she had no intention of showing me my birth certificate and had clearly lied to me. I remember what we said next, word for word. I expect Mum does too, because it was the last time we ever spoke to one another.

“I don’t carewhomy dad was. I don’t even think I want to meet him—he obviously didn’t care enough about me to stick around or show any interest. I just want to know his name. To know whereI came from. How can you not understand that? Youpromisedto show me my birth certificate.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Mum said, staring at me with tears in her eyes. “I just can’t.”

“You meanwon’t.”

“Please, let’s not ruin today. Can’t we just celebrate your birthday and talk about this tomorrow?”

“No, because you never want to talk about it. I joined an ancestry database online. I couldn’t find anything aboutuson there at all. It’s as though we don’t exist—”

“You did what?”

“So then I went to the library, and asked for help to get a copy of my birth certificate for a passport. The librarian sat me down at a computer and showed me how. And guess what, I don’t exist there either. There is no birth certificate in the UK for someone my age named Nellie Fletcher. Who am I? Are you even my mum?” She was crying hard then. All of the terrible things I’d been thinking for days tumbled out of my mouth and I couldn’t stop them. “It isn’t as though we look alike. Or think alike. We have nothing in common.”

“Yes we do,” she whispered. “We have the same green eyes, everyone says so.” She sounded defeated and started pacing, walking up and down the narrow boat, and I knew that she was counting her steps, trying to keep herself calm. Her fingers were gripping and twisting around her wrists as though she needed to hold her own hands.

“Who am I, really?” I asked, terrified of the answer. “Why did we move to different places all the time when I was little? I’m not a child anymore, you can tell me the truth.”

“I can explain...”

“Go on then.”

“Please try to be patient.”

“Patientis all I’ve ever been. That should be my name:Patience.”

“As you know, I was very young when I became a mum. I was only eighteen, the same age you are now—”

“Where was I born? Which hospital?” I interrupted, and when my mother didn’t answer, the fear that had been filling my mind for months resurfaced. “Are you really my mum? You didn’t answer earlier.”

“Of courseI’myour mum. I don’t see anyone else here cooking your dinners or making your bed or buying you presents on your birthday—”

“If this really is my birthday.” The look on Mum’s face made me feel sick. She took a step toward me, and I took a step back. “Oh my god. This isn’t even my real birthday is it? What is happening? I don’t understand!”

“Please calm down.”

“Did you give birth to me?”

I have never seen her look so afraid. All of her was trembling. “Can we please just—”

“Did. You. Give. Birth. To. Me?” I shouted.

We stared at each other for a long time before she answered.

“No.”

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