BooksBarbecue
Back One Winter Morning Save as PDF
Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. By the same author
  4. Dedication
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. Acknowledgements
  54. Read More
  55. Two Years Later
  56. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

‘Thoughts like that will get you nowhere,’ Tracey said. ‘Fact is, you’re here now. You came for a reason, and you’re going to see this thing through, even if I have to march you to that girl’s door myself. And don’t think that I won’t.’

Bonnie had to smile at that.

‘I know you would,’ she agreed. ‘Hopefully, after she reads this,’ she added, motioning towards the sheaf of papers on the table, ‘then it will help her to understand.’

‘You were so young when it all happened,’ soothed Tracey, letting go of Bonnie’s hand and standing up. ‘I’m sure she’ll be sympathetic when she hears what you went through.’

Bonnie nodded, but the gesture belied the truth. Because how could she realistically expect her lost daughter to understand the reasons why she had given her up, when she, Bonnie, had yet to figure all of them out for herself?

Penguin walking logo

12

I can’t remember a time that I didn’t think about who my real mother might be, but it was during my teenage years that I obsessed about her the most. I would sit at my dressing table and stare at myself in the mirror, trying to guess which of my features I had inherited from her. Did she have the same bright blue eyes as me? The same thick, dark hair? Was her Cupid’s bow slightly asymmetric? Did she squint when she was concentrating? Was there a cluster of moles behind her right ear? Did she have to pencil in the middle part of each eyebrow, where they thinned inexplicably?

Whenever I lost my temper over silly things as an adolescent, I would pile the blame for my behaviour at my absent mother’s feet. If I was being unreasonable, then it was because she had passed on the trait; if I was rejected by a boy that I had a crush on at school, it was her attributes that had put him off. It was easier to hang all the things I didn’t like about myself on the shoulders of a stranger than to consider that they were down to me. It was my way of staying angry with this person, this unknown, shadowy figure who just happened to be my mother. Even when the hormones calmed down a fraction and I began to grow up and accept responsibility for my own actions, the ashes of that disgruntlement, once such a hot and furious furnace, continued to smoulder.