Mma Ramotswe assured her that the daughter was well. “But I have to tell you, Mma,” she went on, “that there is one thing that is bothering her. She thinks that she is not really the daughter of her late mother. She thinks that she is the daughter of another mother.”

Mma Mapoi received this news in silence. She looked at the kettle, which had not yet boiled. Then she looked down at her hands, which were resting, folded, in her lap. Mma Ramotswe’s eyes were drawn to the hands and saw the signs of years of hard work: the cracked skin from scrubbing; the scars from the kitchen knife, little nicks; the worn-down nails.

“She is,” said Mma Mapoi eventually.

“She is the daughter of another mother?”

Mma Mapoi lifted her head. “Yes. Another mother.”

So it is true, thought Mma Ramotswe. Three testimonies to truth; one to falsehood. That woman in Otse, the woman with the chair in the tree, was making things up. Perhaps I should have been readier to discount the tale of one who had a chair in a tree.

“Do you know who that mother was, Mma?”

Mma Mapoi dropped her gaze again. The kettle was now boiling, but she seemed uninterested in it. Mma Ramotswe wondered if she should offer to make the tea, but decided against it. They would wait. She looked at Mma Mapoi. She had not expected her to know, because it seemed that it would be a bit too much to hope for. But obviously she did know; if she did not, she would have said so.

“Do you know her name, Mma?” she prompted. “Or even where she came from?”

Mma Mapoi cleared her throat. “I know who that woman was,” she said. “I did not know her personally, but I knew exactly who she was.”

“I am glad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is important for the younger Mma Sebina to know. When you do not know where you have come from…”

Mma Mapoi suddenly rose to her feet to attend to the kettle. She checked herself in a moment of pain; her joints. “Is it important, Mma? Are you sure that it’s important?”

“I think so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “People who are adopted want to know these days, I think. They used to hide these things, but not now.”

Mma Mapoi poured the hot water into a small brown teapot. The smell of the tea, Tanganda, Mma Ramotswe thought, drifted across the room. It was time, thought Mma Ramotswe; and tea made it easier to talk, much easier.

“But what if there really is something to hide?” said Mma Mapoi, her voice raised unnaturally. “What then, Mma?”