‘Who Dad? Nah, he’s never here on a Sunday.’

‘Does he know I’m here?’

Kiama shakes his head. ‘He knows I’ve found you. Spoken to you. He’s been a bit off about the whole thing. Made me not want to bring it up with him again.’

She shifts in her seat.

‘When was the last time you saw him? Years, right?’ Kiama suggests.

What were Lewis’s reasons for keeping their call a secret? She doesn’t want to start lying to Kiama, but also knows better than to get in the middle of their relationship.

‘Yes,’ she says trying to rub some warmth back into her fingers. ‘Years.’

Kiama looks down at his drink and squeezes the straw to dislodge a build-up of ice. It’s so hard to know how to treat him, how to talk to him. He’s not a kid anymore, but there’s something about him that makes her feel like she has to hold back, to treat him with kid gloves. ‘I brought something to show you.’

His big eyes flick up to hers and she breaks away, going in to her bag to get the envelope. She holds it against her chest and the contents suddenly feel too precious to share. ‘I don’t know how many photos you have of her, of your mum.’

Yvonne lays the envelope on the table and he places a hand on it and pulls it towards himself. But he doesn’t look at them straight away, instead stares at Yvonne, as if for permission. She nods and he pulls the photos out. His face softens as he studies each one. ‘Wow. I’ve never seen these. My grandparents hardly have any photos of her. Except a few from birthdays and Christmas.’

Yvonne is surprised they even had that, yet she feels compelled to defend Emma’s unsentimental parents. ‘It was different back then. People only took photos on special occasions. Now, everyone seems to take them constantly. Though your mum was a fan of those disposable cameras you used to get. She was always snapping away when we were out drinking.’

While she rambles on, he carefully lays each photo on the table in a line. He taps the one of Emma hugging a large Kenyan woman in a garden. ‘She looks so pretty here.’

Yvonne bites the inside of her cheek and looks away. ‘Yeah. She does.’

He tips his head to the side, ‘Where is this place? With these kids?’

‘I don’t know.’ Yvonne lifts one and stares at it, as if seeing it for the first time. Emma stands in front of a rural Kenyan house, surrounded by about ten children. The same round woman is there too, this time holding a baby. ‘I think, but I’m not sure, it’s a school. She helped out at one once when she went back for the summer.’

‘Are these your only copies?’