All I had to do was look up where she works and catch a few buses over there. It turned out it was quite a long way, but still. I didn’t need a passport or anything.
It would have been better, I guess, to phone ahead and make sure she was working that day, but we’re not talking about some secret hideout here. To be fair to me, she had never tried to find me, either. She didn’t send Christmas cards or any of that stuff because of Dad.
Because I was round the corner from Dad all those years, and seeing him every day to take his meals and help him put on his socks, stuff like that, and she didn’t want anything to do with him. I wouldn’t argue with that. If someone asked Dad about her, he’d ignore them.
If pushed he’d say, she’s nothing to do with me, what are you asking me for? I grew up putting all of that in one corner of my head. She’s nothing to do with him.
But then in another corner of my head, I knew it couldn’t be true. I had to go through all his drawers to find the bank books, all that stuff, and there were our birth certificates, Caroline Marie in May 1965, Stephanie Jane in October 1966. Both births registered by their father, Stanley Cartwright.
Mum had been married before, and her first husband died in an accident at work. It was the insurance payout that meant she could keep the house. She was a widow then, with no children but a house of her own.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
