We’re all exhausted, and I haven’t even started to ask about my birth certificate. I wanted to speak to Dad, alone in the first instance, but so far, we haven’t had the opportunity. It will need to wait for another day as I suspect none of us has the strength or commitment to tackle it now.
I go to my bedroom. It’s the same one I used from childhood up until the time I moved into my flat. It hasn’t altered; it still has the same boy-band posters on the wall, unchanged since my teens, the same cuddly toys on my bed and on a shelf. I wash, get changed and tuck the quilt around myself. It’s only a few minutes before Mum comes to check on me. “Call me if there’s anything you need. It doesn’t matter about the time, just call me,” she says.
Although I feel very tired, I sleep fitfully. I don’t
