“Well, there’s still time to reconsider the move then. It’ll help to have family close when the baby comes.”
“I think it’s the opposite,” I whispered wittily.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing. Listen, I can’t stay, but I’ll be nipping back up in a few weeks anyway.”
“Fine. Make sure you get your mail redirected. There is a pile of it on the kitchen counter,” Mother said, flicking her finished cigarette aimlessly into the garden.
Ever since Dad died, that had been the extent of our relationship, which limited itself to a few passing comments on my way home from Filey. Truthfully, I didn’t know how I felt about it. I definitely wasn’t sad; we’d never been close, and the only person keeping our dysfunctional family together was Dad. After he was gone, I tried to keep contact to a bare minimum. It was best for everybody that way.
I went inside the house and walked upstairs into my old room. It was perfectly preserved in its adolescent state, almost hermetically sealed once I’d left for Manchester. I took out some of the drawers to find my old stashing place and carefully piled the cash into the cavity underneath. I crept back downstairs, not eager to be confronted with another forced conversation with Mother, and noticed the pile of letters waiting for me on the counter. I swiped them all up and made my way back to the car.
There were a few phone bills. I really needed to get that switched over. The rest was all just junk mail, but the final envelope was missing a stamp, which made me realise it had been delivered by hand. It simply had my name written on the front. I opened it, and inside, there was a selection of photographs of people I didn’t know, with the exception of the final photograph, which was of me and some random woman, taken about a decade earlier. ‘Becky and Harry, Manchester’ was written in pencil on the reverse. I checked the envelope again, and a single piece of lined paper fell out of it. It was a letter, which was addressed to me.
Harry,
You won’t remember me, but we met on a night out in Manchester ten years ago. I only knew your first name and where you were from. I found you, but I was too scared to get in touch. I’ve enclosed some photographs of Joshua. He’s your son.
I know this come as a shock to you, but he’s started asking questions about his dad and wants you to be a part of his life. I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner; I just didn’t know what to say. I never expected anything from you, so I thought I’d spare myself the disappointment.
We live in Manchester; I’ve written my address on the back of this letter.
Becky.
My hand was trembling, and truthfully, I didn’t know how to feel. It was somewhere in between wanting to hand out cigars and running for the hills. A son, though. He would be about ten years old. I’d spent so long wanting children, only to find out that I already had one in this world was mind blowing. Shamefully, I didn’t have a clue who Becky was, and the enclosed photograph didn’t help jog my memory either. I had no idea how many women I’d slept with during university, and to be honest, I’d always thought I was lucky not to have received news like this sooner. I leafed through the photographs aimlessly. I needed to meet this woman and my son. I had to, didn’t I? The letter wasn’t exactly forceful; it was more of an invitation than a demand. I couldn’t make sense of my own emotions, flitting between excitement and joy to abject terror and dread. But I had to act on the news. There was no debate there.
The sheer magnitude of the news made me forget about Amelia for a few minutes. This news would certainly devastate her. Not because I was unfaithful; this happened way before we’d met. However, I knew how she would see it. She was always so paranoid about me cheating on her, and in one way or another, she would manage to find a way to see red about this. Considering how much we were struggling to have children of our own, the fact that I had a son would only come to add insult to injury. I could conjure up images of the rage on her face if I told her, and I just couldn’t do it. I hated lying to Amelia, but I had to keep it under wraps for the time being, knowing that I’d have to confess it all eventually. There wasn’t a suitable time to tell her the truth, but hopefully, it would be more palatable once we were expecting a child of our own.
I started the journey back home, but the letter was obviously preying heavily on my mind. I decided to make a detour and I put Becky’s address into the sat-nav. I didn’t have any specific motives, all I wanted was to see where they were living. It was the strangest drive I’d ever taken. It was as if I’d clicked my fingers, and voilá, I was a father all of a sudden. I promised myself I’d just take a quick look and then go straight home to Amelia.
I arrived in Manchester. Becky lived on a council estate just outside of the city centre, and it seemed a little rough. I locked my doors and parked further down the street from the address. I had no idea what the plan was; I just sat there, waiting for some sign of life. I leafed through the photographs again, hoping to spot anyone featured in them. My phone started ringing, it was Amelia.
“Hi, love,” I answered.
“Harry, where are you?” Amelia asked abruptly
“Yeah, sorry, I hit some traffic on the motorway. I needed fuel, so I just went to the service station.”
“Well, hurry up! I miss you,” Amelia joked.
“I’ll get there as soon as I can. Do you need any—"
I am interrupted by a loud tapping on the driver’s window. Because of the angle, I couldn’t see who was outside, but it looked like a woman.
“Sorry, Ames, I’ve got to go. I think I’m blocking someone in. I love you,” I fibbed.
“Drive safe! I love—” Amelia was interrupted as I hung up on her hastily.
I stepped out of the car, and the woman from the photographs, Becky, stood sheepishly a few metres away from the car. I was still clutching the photographs, and she stood there staring at me, clearly feeling very uneasy. She looked different to the pictures I’d seen; she was older, and she had her blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail. She was wearing an ill-fitting grey hoodie and jeans, covered in stains and marks. I had no idea what to say to this woman, but she seemed even more nervous than I was.
“Becky?” I asked.
“Yes. Sorry, I was walking past, and I thought I recognised you,” she replied.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry, I’ve never been in this situation before. I don’t really know what to say.”
“You don’t have to apologise. It’s my fault for not trying to find you sooner. I was starting to think you had ignored the letter, though.”
“No, I don’t live in Filey anymore. You actually sent the letter to my mother’s house.”
“Where are you living now?”
“Here, well, in the city centre.”
“Fancy. Good job?”
“Reasonably,” I shrugged.
“Married?”
“A few months ago.”
“Kids?”
“Not yet,” I smiled.
“Listen, do you want to come in for a cup of tea or something? Joshua isn’t here. He’s at his friend’s house.”
