Why are the cushions all askew again, I wonder, and where did the dust come from when Zodwa cleaned just this morning? I wish I’d gotten flowers for the lounge table but it’s too late now.

I’ve been on edge all week because the social worker from the orphanage is coming to do a home assessment as part of the adoption proceedings. It hasn’t helped that Zodwa has been so distracted I’ve had to micromanage her, following her from room to room to make sure everything is perfect.

I don’t know what’s gotten into Zodwa lately. All I can think is that it’s her upcoming trip home to lay her brother to rest that’s worrying her, because she’s been moody and a million miles away these past few days.

“There you go! All done,” Dee says as she lifts Mandla from the counter and puts him down.

He’s an absolute vision in his blue suit, white shirt, pink-and-blue-polka-dotted bow tie, shiny black shoes, and dapper trilby hat. My baby looks just like a little man.

“He looks like he’s auditioning for a role in The Music Man,” Dee says dryly.

“Clothes maketh the man. And woman,” I add, eyeing her up and down. “You could have made some effort yourself.”

“What?” Dee looks down at her beige pants and blouse. “This is clean and ironed.”

I’m about to tell her that her definition of making an effort needs reevaluating when the intercom buzzes and we all collectively jump. Zodwa’s busy placing bowls of jam on a plate and drops one. Strawberry jam splatters onto Mandla’s jacket.

“Damn it, Zodwa!”

“Sorry, Madam Ruth.”

“Do you think you could get the door so I can wipe him down?”

Jesus, do I have to do every damn thing myself?

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Zodwa

17 July 1996

Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

Zodwa walks to the door, forcing a smile. Being here, having to cook and clean so that Ruth can make a good impression on the person who will decide if Mandla can be adopted, is excruciating.

He has a mother who loves him and would give anything to be with him. He doesn’t need another one.

But, of course, that’s just the thing: he does.

Zodwa opens the door, surprised when the face on the other side is one she knows. Judging by the woman’s puzzled expression as she beholds Zodwa, she recognizes her too but is also struggling to place her.

“Hello,” the woman says.

That’s when Zodwa realizes who she is and her blood runs cold.