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By Root 1404 0

and stopped me. I guess you had artistic sensibilities even then! Never did get to hang that frieze. You were a few weeks early—it was like you couldn’t wait to see me. Fast, too—in a hurry—like you’ve always been. And it was just you and me and the midwife—and she slipped out and left us alone. It was so quiet. You didn’t even cry. No fussing, no noise, and no interference. No one else wanting to hold you. You were mine, Amanda. All mine. And I loved you, so much.

People were gossiping about me in the ward. I could see them, behind their banks of tasteless flowers and helium balloons, and relatives bearing down with Chelsea strips and baskets of grapes. The single mother with no visitors. I didn’t give a damn.

You mustn’t blame Donald. Okay, you can blame him for being an inadequate human being, because he pretty much always was. But it was me who held him at arm’s length when you came. We’d been living apart almost the whole time I was pregnant. The decree nisi was through, and we were waiting for the absolute. He’d already met Marissa, hadn’t he—started his new life. I know he wanted to do the right thing. Or at least that he wanted to be seen to be doing the right thing. He was always a stickler for appearances. But I couldn’t see the point.

Have you guessed, my darling girl? Have you wondered and thought and imagined, lying in the couchettes and hammocks and tents and beach huts of your long journeys? Have you already hated me for my dishonesty, or does that start here? Will you listen to my excuses and my justifications, or stop hearing at the first words?

Because, of course, and now isn’t it so obvious? Of course Donald isn’t your father.

I’ve known I would tell you this since they told me I was dying. No one else knows, and I couldn’t let it die with me. But I have played the conversation and written the letters over and over in my head, and never been sure until this moment whether I would tell you who the man was. I can’t call him your father, because he isn’t—he hasn’t been. Neither was Donald. Mark—wonderful Mark—he’s been the best I could do for you, and he’s been pretty bloody terrific.

And so I won’t tell you. It doesn’t matter. We had an affair. My own marriage was even more in tatters than I thought it was. I don’t know about his. I don’t even know if I was the only lover he had had. He was, for me. But it wasn’t a wonderful thing. It was a tacky, sort of sordid thing. It didn’t last long. I’m a lousy liar. God, are you reading that and thinking what a stinking irony that is? I’m not lying about this. A few weeks—that’s all.

He didn’t even know I was pregnant when we stopped. There was no point. I wish I could say I’d stopped because I didn’t want people to get hurt. In lots of ways I wish I could tell you I’d done that—made the ultimate, noble sacrifice and given up someone who was the love of my life, because it was the right thing to do.

I did give him up. Because I didn’t love him. That was why.

I was flattered and excited and I didn’t love him.

I don’t think he loved me, either.

We were slightly pathetic, actually, the pair of us. Acting like teenagers when we were far too old.

And actually, I didn’t know for sure that you were his. After the first time, I went home and went to bed with my husband. Pretty grim, when you think about it; believe me, Amanda—nothing about that time in my life makes me especially proud of myself—but I was frightened. So I couldn’t be sure.

Of course, you didn’t look a thing like Donald, when you were born. And I knew then.

By then they’d moved away—he was spooked as hell by my being pregnant. My belly was his scarlet letter. Not that he ever asked me, the coward. And I didn’t want him to, anyway. He got himself transferred, and they sold their house and moved away. And I honestly never saw him again.

I’ve always wondered whether I would have stayed with your father—with Donald, I mean. If he hadn’t left me. I’d like to think not, but maybe I’m lying to myself—maybe I never was that brave.

So here we are, and I’m a coward again. I’m writing this down, when