I looked at that woman for about four seconds.
« Her future. »
« She made a mistake, » my father said. He did not lower his voice. « You can start again. Cressida’s younger. She deserves some happiness. »
And for about one second I was seven years old again.
In a front room, on a Saturday, handing my own birthday presents across to a five-year-old — because she had cried, and because our mother had looked at me and said my name in a particular way.
Four presents. I can still name two of them and I am forty-one years old now.
Nothing had changed in thirty-one years.
The furniture was better. The sums were larger. The woman doing the crying had got a lawyer.
Rhys’s lawyer slid a document across to me.
Eleven pages.
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