The look on his face describes exactly what he’s thinking. That I’m crazy. ‘What makes you ask that, Sally?’

‘I saw a photo today of a teenage boy and I thought I saw you in the picture with him. The girl with the photo said the man was the boy’s father.’

‘What?’ He moves forward to the edge of the seat and places the hand that isn’t holding the Baileys on my foot. I pull my foot away. ‘What are you talking about, Sally?’

‘Today in the hairdresser’s, a young girl showed me a photo of her boyfriend with his father. It looked like you in the picture.’

‘Why are you saying this? That’s not possible.’

‘I’m telling you what I saw.’

‘It must be some guy who looks like me, Sally. It certainly isn’t me.’

‘So you’re telling me you don’t have another child.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Sally, how much of that wine did you drink? This is crazy talk.’

He heads back to the drinks cabinet to fill up his glass. And for some reason, I feel like he’s an intruder in the room. Someone who doesn’t belong here.

‘You really need to stop drinking so much wine, Sal. It’s beginning to play games with your mind.’

He returns to the sofa, raises the volume on the TV and tunes back in to the entertainment. I’m sitting here feeling like a fool. It has to have been someone else in the photo. Someone who looked like Tom. Someone with the same expression, the same pink shirt. I’ve been so tired lately. Working full time, caring for the twins and worrying about Amber and how distant she seems. Maybe my imagination is playing tricks with me. And with the party tomorrow…

Oh no… Shit. I forgot to pick up the birthday cake on the way home from work. I don’t fucking believe it.

Grabbing my cell, I quickly Google Thunder’s Bakery.

The boys are expecting Thomas the Tank Engine to be stationed in the middle of their party table tomorrow. They’ve been talking about it all week. Well, actually I have, trying to rouse them, get them all excited.

I flick through the screen. Please be open Sunday… pleeeease.

Opening hours. Mon – Sat 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. Closed Sunday.

Fuck. I can’t believe it. The cake. What will I do? The most important day for Cian and Aaron and I’m off somewhere in my head playing the victim. Worried about a stupid photograph that some stranger shows me of what might or might not have happened in the past and all the time neglecting the present. The boys, the party, the family I love.

Chapter Six

‘How did you forget to pick up the cake?’ Amber is pumping air into balloons and judging me at the same time.