When I reach her posts from two and a half years ago, it looks as though something traumatic must have happened in her life because a few people were asking Kate how she was doing and saying that if she needed anything she was to let them know. Maybe she had a bereavement? But there’s no mention of anyone dying. Frustratingly, there’s no mention of anything happening – just a few friends offering their support. There’s also a post by Kate with a meme that says: When you’re up, your friends know who you are. When you’re down, you know who your friends are.

So something definitely went wrong in her life back then. I scroll forward through the posts, which since that time have become very sparse, until I reach one from a couple of months ago. And I read a comment that makes my blood freeze…

15

Frustratingly, I have no more time to examine Kate’s Facebook post and look for further evidence of what I think it might mean. If I don’t get out of the car right this minute, I’m going to be late for work. I can’t be late again. Dee would not be happy. I slip my phone back into my bag, grab my brolly and leave the damp warmth of the car interior. As I negotiate puddles and pedestrians, I can’t stop thinking that the comment could very well lead to the evidence I need to prove that Bella is my daughter.

I get chills when I think that Kate and Shaun were actually in our house. What was I thinking, inviting them over to dinner and into our lives? I wish I didn’t have to work this morning so I could get back on social media and dig deeper. But I can’t afford to lose my job, so I’ll just have to wait. I’ve been without my daughter for nine years now, I guess a few more days is nothing in comparison. Yet the physical ache in my bones is saying otherwise, the deep yearning to have her back. My pain has been dialled down over the past few years, smothered below the surface. But with the appearance of Bella, it’s flaring up again, burning through every cell in my body like a raging fire that won’t be put out.

I reach the café, shake out my umbrella and push open the steamed-up door.

‘Hi, Rachel.’ My boss gives me a warm smile as she deposits an order of beans on toast and a pot of tea in front of Bernie, a regular customer who’s in his eighties. He’s seated at his usual table by the window. Dee usually serves tea in mugs, but Bernie always likes a cup and saucer.

‘Morning, Dee.’ I plaster on a smile for my boss. She doesn’t need to see my inner turmoil.