The day after her seventh birthday, Dad told her that her mother was dead.
‘Dead to me,’ he said. ‘And so is that boy upstairs.’ He paced about the floor. Twice he nearly stood on her, so she moved herself into the hallway. ‘The doc must have got it wrong, what he said about him. Christ, he can’t be mine, not like that. All I want is a lad that a dad can be proud of.’
She stood at the bottom of the stairs, expecting to hear her mam crying or something. But there was no sound from her, only little Jimmie squealing as usual. What had Jimmie done?
‘Empty. She’s always been empty where I’m concerned. She can’t expect me to bring up someone else’s… She can’t expect me to do it twice and give me nothing in return. He can’t be mine.’
She sat on Dad’s suitcase, shaking her head until it felt l
