‘What do you mean?’ His voice is softening, as though the energy that fuelled his anger is running out.

‘I suppose I mean it’s all allowed. Forgiveness is everything.’

‘How very noble of you.’

‘It’s not about nobility, is it, Rhys?’ I shift in my seat to face him. ‘It’s about not letting other people’s lives dictate our own.’ My words reverberate back and I think about the look on Daniel’s face when he saw me last night on his mum’s doorstep. As if five years meant nothing to him. There was no remorse, no embarrassment, no hint that he needed to protect me from getting hurt. Maybe that’s because he didn’t care either way. Maybe he never did.

Rhys turns to face me now. ‘Other people’s lives do dictate ours, though, don’t they? Or they affect them, at least. Of course they do. We respond to the things they say and do, we all feed off one another. We all breathe the same oxygen, we’re all wired the same way. If your brother kills himself, how do you ever get over that?’‘Maybe you don’t.’

I look down at my bag for the first time since leaving my flat. Susan’s book and paper cutting safe inside.

‘I understand that this is hard for you, Rhys, but we don’t know anything about Susan, about her life. That article might not even be about her.’

‘Who else would it be? What if her child tries to find her but can’t because she’s given up on life? That child’s been doubly rejected.’

His anger returns. His face colours red.

‘Susan’s not dead though, is she,’ I say. ‘She survived. And maybe we’re making a difference. Maybe you are. It wasn’t her time, and now she has a second chance. And maybe that’s because of you.’ I swallow, aware of the poignancy of my words. ‘Maybe she has a chance to make a different choice. And maybe, one day, that will be rewarded…’

‘Mum always says love makes everything better. That it can fix even the most broken.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I think my brother couldn’t see it for looking.’

‘What was he looking for?’

‘His birth mother. His flesh and blood. He assumed it would fix everything inside that he felt was broken.’

‘But it didn’t?’

‘We buried him,’ he says, simply. I look down at my fingers, my knuckles white because I’ve held them so tight. ‘Does she know?’ I ask.

‘Who?’

‘Your birth mother,’ I say, treading carefully. ‘About David, I mean. Maybe if she knew what he’d done, it might be the push she needs to do things differently – with you, I mean. As awful as it sounds, maybe there is a way to find something good from all of this. Maybe that would help you too? Maybe then, you can have a relationship with her even though—’

‘She’s nothing to me.’

‘Not now, but she’s your birth mother.’

‘Not mine. Our David was younger than me. We had different parents.’