It hits me in the stomach right then: a physical ache for a child of my own, a child like Léa, another being on this planet who shares my genes, who is physically connected to me. I don’t need to be a psychologist to know that what’s happened in recent years has only heightened my need for a child. Ever since the tests, I feel like I’ve been floating alone in this world, linked to nothing and no one.

Untethered.

It doesn’t have to change a thing. We can just forget about it, Dad had said.

But as much as I wish he were right, I know deep down that I can’t forget. What’s done is done and it changes everything. Even so, I long to return to Léa’s age, safe in the cocoon of family life with Dad and Mum and Bruno and nanny Erika.

Back before I knew it was all a lie.

MARCH 1976 Lausanne, Switzerland

SYLVIA

Rue Haldimand 8, like all the buildings on the street, was an elegant old dame: tall, slim, well kept, but fading. Sylvia pressed the intercom for ‘Buchs’, stepped inside, glanced at the minuscule lift and took the stairs. The door was ajar when she reached the fourth-floor flat, so she knocked and pushed it open. A warm, orange light and soft music drew her in.

‘You’re here! Bienvenue!’ Evelyne appeared in the doorway. She kissed her on both cheeks and Sylvia pulled back after two, not expecting a third. ‘It’s three here, darling!’ Evelyne laughed. She took Sylvia’s coat and led her into the living room where several women were standing around a table with what looked like bedsheets spread out over it. One had a paint brush in her hand.

‘Les filles! This is Sylvia; she’s come to help us share our plight with the world!’

The women in turn came to greet her: Monique, Sophie, Nina, Sonja; names Sylvia knew she’d never remember.

‘Any good with a paintbrush?’ one of them said to Sylvia. Nina, was it? Her jet black hair parted in the middle and fell nearly to her waist, framing a serious face that lit up when she smiled.

‘I suppose so. What are you doing?’

‘Banners.’ An older woman with red hair and a warm, round face smiled at her. ‘We’re prepping for the rally in Bern tomorrow.’

Reading upside down across the table Sylvia could make out, in wonky letters: ‘Les enfants ou non, c’est nous qui décidons’. ‘Children or not, it’s us who decide’, she translated in her head. ‘Tous égaux devant la loi’ said another, ‘Everyone equal in the eyes of the law’.

‘You’re coming, right?’ Evelyne said.