I get to the Department of Social Services just before 8 a.m. the next day. Their webpage tells me they open at nine, so it means waiting another hour outside, but it’s worth it to be first in the queue.

I’ve been up all night, thinking it through. Even though I never wanted a kid, knowing my son exists makes everything different. Five years ago, I came back to life and maybe this was why. I don’t want to waste any more time.

While I wait, I stamp my feet to stay warm, rehearsing what I am going to say in my head. The words make me sound exactly like the scumbag I am, but at least they’re the truth.

When they open the doors, the Christmas decorations still hang limply off the ceiling, and there’s a faint smell of pine air freshener and candy cane. The two women behind reception are giggling as they catch up on festive gossip, and look faintly put out to be interrupted by a customer. Client. Whatever I am.

I know nothing.

‘Happy New Year,’ I say brightly. ‘I don’t know if I’m in the right place, but want to enquire about a baby.’

The older one stops laughing; her red-framed glasses make her look a bit like a kid’s TV presenter, but there’s no warmth in her scowl. ‘What about a baby?’

‘I think . . . a former partner of mine has had a baby and I want to meet him.’

‘You want us to help you meet your ex-partner?’

Is she doing this on purpose? ‘No, the baby. His mum takes drugs so I think the council will probably be involved.’

She sighs. ‘What’s the name of your ex-partner? I can’t reveal anything personal but I might be able to make you an appointment with a member of staff who can advise.’

‘It’s Zoë.’

She looks up from the Post-it she’s writing on and waits. ‘Zoë what?’ she prompts, eventually.

‘The thing is . . . it wasn’t a surnames kind of relationship.’

Her eyebrows rise. I’ve dressed carefully, to look more mature than I feel, but I know I must seem so bloody irresponsible.

The entrance door opens behind me and a teenage girl tries to manoeuvre her double buggy inside, as both her children cry out in protest. I want to help, but don’t know where to begin.

‘Date and place of birth?’ the council official asks, her voice sharp.

I open my mouth, pleased that I can answer something in full. ‘August the tenth, 1982. Sussex Hospital.’

This time her sigh almost blows a pile of leaflets off the desk. ‘The child’s, not yours.’

Shit. ‘Um, the twenty-third of December. Ten days ago. It’s a boy but I don’t know where she had it. Possibly Brighton, though.’