Page 63 of When We Were Young

Chapter 31

April 2016

Liv

I message Dad and ask him to pick me up from Mum’s early.

He waits until we’ve pulled away from the house before asking, ‘What happened, Liv?’

He says it in such a kind voice I burst into tears. I don’t deserve his kindness. I’m a terrible person.

He lets me sniffle for a while. I look out the window, wiping my eyes, buying time.

When we get in the house, he gives me an enormous hug in the hallway.

He rests his chin on the top of my head. ‘Talk to me.’

I don’t want to say out loud what I’ve done, but it’s easier if he can’t see my face. ‘I did something bad,’ I confess.

‘We all make mistakes. What did you do?’

I hesitate. ‘I thought Mum might have letters from Will Bailey, so I looked through the boxes in the loft.’

I brace myself for him to have a go at me, but he just sighs. ‘I’m guessing you found some?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you read them?’

I start to cry again, and he strokes my hair.

When I try to speak, it sounds like something’s stuck in my throat. ‘I read…allof them.’

His ribs contract as he sighs again.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Hot chocolate will help.’

I follow him into the kitchen. ‘This might be beyond the powers of hot chocolate.’

He fills his fancy coffee machine with milk and clatters around, getting mugs from the cupboards. He’s doing that thing where he keeps quiet, waiting for me to talk – he should be a therapist. I lean on the counter, building up to it.

‘I read something in the letters…’ I say eventually, ‘That made me think you might not be my dad.’

There’s a flicker of shock in his expression before he composes himself and fixes his eyes on me. ‘I’m your dad, Liv. There’s no doubt about that.’

‘How do you know, though?’

‘Because I was there Liv, I remember it.’

I don’t want to talk to him about sex. ‘But you can’t be sure she wasn’t…’

He comes to me, takes my hand, and leads me to the mirror in the lounge. He stands behind me, his head above mine. I study our faces. We are alike. Everyone says it.

‘You have brown eyes,’ I say.

‘I know you’re mine.’ He stares into space for a moment, then snaps out of it. ‘Hot chocolate!’

Back in the kitchen, he pours hot milk into the mugs, swirls cocoa powder in mine and a shot of espresso in his.