Chapters (55)
- Cover
- ANNA WHARTON
- Dedication page
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Praise
- THE IMPOSTER
‘What? No, Maureen, I wasn’t saying—’
‘After everything that’s been said, after dragging this poor girl down from her room, you still think I’m crazy, don’t you?’
‘Maureen, I—’
‘Patrick Kyle, after all these years, you still don’t know me, do you?’
‘Maureen, what?’
‘Yes, I am your wife, but first and foremost, I am a mother. Do you think just because my child was taken from me that I stopped being a mother? Did you stop being a father that day?’
He shuffles in his seat.
‘Actually, don’t answer that. Because it’s different for men, you don’t carry them like we do, you don’t wake up each morning and go to sleep at night cradling them inside your own body before they are even born. When they are, you claim you feel the same, but let me tell you this Patrick James Kyle, you’re not even close.’
Maureen’s face is set firm. She continues:
‘The day Angie was born was the single best day of my life. It defined me. I was no longer just someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s wife, I was someone’s mother, and to me, that made me someone.’ She prods herself in the chest. ‘And then she went and I was nothing, I was no one, and I couldn’t even grieve because I had nothing to grieve for. But in here’ – she taps her chest again although her voice falters – ‘I was still a mother. So don’t tell me that I think some stranger is my child. Don’t tell me that I can live with her as my lodger and forget that she’s somebody else’s daughter. I knew Angela. I know Angela.’ She pauses then to look at Chloe. ‘And I’m telling you, Patrick, with every fibre of my being, I know that this girl is my daughter.’
Maureen reaches for Chloe and tucks her arm underneath her own. Chloe sits beside her, passive, like a piece of driftwood caught by the current, swept away by the emotion in the room. And yet, isn’t this what she had always wanted? To be chosen? To be loved more than a dead person?
Patrick puts his hands out, motioning for her to stop. ‘Maureen, don’t go upsetting yourself, all I’m saying is that there is a process—’
‘What do you mean, process?’
‘Well, of course there is. You can’t just pull people off the street and say they’re your . . .’
Chloe feels Maureen tense. Patrick continues:
‘I’m just saying that there will be . . . formalities that we need to go through. The police will need to be—’
‘Why? What’s it got to do with them?’