It was my birthday yesterday. I got a card and a gift voucher from Aunty Jasmine. She’s moving to Coventry so the twins can be closer to their dad. The people in the home I’m staying in were gonna arrange a birthday tea for me, but I told them I wouldn’t go. They bought me a cake anyway and Georgie sang “Happy Birthday” outside my bedroom door. I got a card from Annie, and Skye messaged me. I hoped Kandi would send a card. Maybe she did and her dad only pretended to post it.

And today I’m waiting for my new social worker to take me to the police station. I’m gonna find out what happens next. My fingers and thumbs are moving so fast with these needles. Maybe it’s not just sky I’m knitting. Maybe it’s water too.

Social services got me a lawyer called Shelley and we’ve already talked on the phone about what might happen today. She reckoned that Blake’s hand would heal all right, though if it went to court, he might try to say otherwise. Shelley didn’t mention no mediation. But even if Blake’s hand got better, it didn’t change the fact, Shelley said. I’d still stabbed it with a knitting needle. There would be consequences just for that. But now I could be looking at new charges: criminal damage and assaulting a police officer. If I was truly sorry, it might help our case, Shelley told me.

I didn’t answer.

I think about what Annie said. She was right – it is easier to play the game. Can I make myself look shorter and a bit more delicate and a bit more white? Can I have the “sorries” dribbling out my mouth all over the place? I could do it if I really tried. And I do feel a bit sorry for the things I’ve done. But what’s the point of even trying now? Even if I knit a sorry so big I can wrap it round the world, I’m never gonna see my sister again. And already … already … I think she’s starting to fade.

*

When I get to the police station, me and Shelley talk in the side room first. She isn’t how I imagined. She’s Black and has got an afro. A short afro, but an afro. Shelley must think I’m rude because I’m staring. I always imagined that Black women got banned from doing important stuff unless they had hair that hung downwards.

The first thing Shelley says to me is, “How are you?”

She even leaves a space for me to answer – a proper answer. I just stare at her. I don’t know how to tell her how I am.

Shelley says, “Is everything a bit overwhelming?”

I nod and breathe in hard, trying to suck my tears back into my body.