‘It’s just a client, nothing important,’ he replies.

‘A client isn’t important? Who is important if not a client?’ Mike asks.

‘It’s fine. I’ll worry about it later.’ The phone rings again, and Adam puts it on silent and turns it face down.

My grandmother continues. ‘As I was saying, hopefully when you’re my age, some new remarkable skin technology will exist.’ She pats her cheek. ‘I think she looks a little like me, don’t you, Adam?’

‘We have the same nose,’ he says. ‘And I have yours, Mom, so yes.’

‘Well, yours is a little larger,’ she says, her brows furrowing.

Adam, Miriam and Mike stare at my nose while I stare at my grandmother’s. It’s true.

‘And my eye is just like his.’ I point to the brown one. ‘I always wondered where this colour came from since Mum’s were green.’

‘Perfect match.’ Miriam looks from Adam’s face to mine. ‘Like father like daughter.’

Father–daughter. I thought that too not long ago, but not so much anymore, I want to say, but don’t.

‘If only I had known you before, Sky—so many wasted years. It’s ridiculous that we’re meeting for the first time. Just ridiculous.’ Miriam looks at Adam pointedly.

I look between them, trying to work out what’s going on. She knew about me? Did Adam not want to find me? But he did—the cards prove it. Then why is she angry with him? Did she think he could have tried harder? Maybe she wanted to find me herself and he said no.

‘Although two different eye colours is called heterochromia,’ Mike says, bringing the conversation back to the previous point. ‘A friend in college had it. It’s usually genetic, so maybe one of your grandparents on your mother’s side had the condition. It’s not from our side.’

‘Oh,’ I say, feeling a bit stupid and disappointed too. I’d had the wrong idea my entire life—my eye didn’t link me to my father, but apparently my nose did. I can’t ask my mum where it came from, obviously, and her parents aren’t alive either. Maybe Paula would know.

‘For the millionth time, I do wish you’d shave off that beard,’ Miriam says to my father, sighing dramatically.

‘And I’ve told you a billion times, Mom. It’s part of Alaskan culture, going all the way back to the pioneering days, even before it was a state. Men didn’t have time to shave in those days; it was a subsistence lifestyle.’

‘Well, I’m not subsisting with this racoon on your face—get rid of it, dear.’

Maybe my optimism was misplaced.

‘Sky, do you like classical music as well?’ she asks.

I’m still digesting the eye-colour news. Why had no one told me that before? ‘I don’t really know much about it,’ I answer.