‘Dad, you’re a journalist, you must understand that I need to know the truth. I can’t explain why, I just do. I can’t move on otherwise.’

‘Well, I don’t want to know, Jess. I just don’t want to know.’

I stare at the screen on my tablet. Was he afraid? Afraid that our relationship might change? It’s possible. The DNA tests may have erased the foundations of my identity, but they haven’t altered how much I love my parents, and I can’t imagine they ever will. But maybe Dad’s worried he’ll feel differently about me if I find what I’m looking for.

I take a deep breath, trying to quell the fear that’s held me back these past months – the fear that I’ll lose him too.

I read the message again, take a breath, my finger hesitating. And then I hit send.

To distract myself from my emails, the next day I decide to take the kids to a free afternoon concert at Montreux Jazz Festival, which has just kicked off for two weeks, filling the lakeshore with laughter and music that sometimes, with the wind in the right direction, floats up to the house. Michel and Julia both warned me off, moaning of crowds and high prices, but I think they both knew I’d go. I can’t pass up the opportunity to visit the most famous jazz festival in the world, right on my doorstep. And today’s a beautiful day for sitting in the park watching music. I just hope the kids won’t get bored.

I raid the fridge and cobble together a picnic lunch. I grab sunscreen, hats and a picnic blanket and order Léa and Luca into some semblance of ready. When we reach the festival site it’s busy, but not unbearably so. The air hums with laughter, music and the hiss of hot grills from the line-up of food stalls along the waterfront promenade. I drag Luca past the ice-cream vans with a promise he can have his pick later on, after our picnic. There are already quite a few people sitting in the park where the stage is set up, waiting for the band to come on. The programme says it’s a South African vocal harmony group.

‘Je veux une glace,’ Luca says for the second time. I feign ignorance, even though I know exactly what he means.

‘In English, Luca,’ I say.

‘Ice cream,’ he says.

‘Later.’