Chapter 2: No where to call home

Natalie picked up on the third ring.

"Amelia? It's late. Is everything okay?"

Her voice almost undid me. I pressed my lips together until I could trust my own.

"Can I stay with you for a night or two?"

Silence. Then, "Ah, Amelia, I'm so sorry. My aunt came this afternoon, and there's no space at all. What's going on?"

What could I say? That my father had called me a thief? That my own mother wouldn't look at me?

"Nothing. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? You sound—"

"I'm sure. Don't worry about me."

I ended the call before she could ask again.

I kept walking, my bag dragging at my shoulder. A man laughed into his phone as he passed. A woman hurried by with a nylon bag of groceries, already thinking about her kitchen. I would have given anything to be either of them, or to be back on my bed pretending the evening was a dream I could wake from.

But I couldn't go back. Not after the way my father had looked at me, and not after Vanessa sat there crying while everyone believed I had stolen from her.

My feet hurt. I sat down on a bench outside a closed shop. There were other people I could have called, but I couldn't face the questions. How could your own father throw you out? What did you do? I had no answers I could say out loud.

So I opened the thread with the unknown number instead.

Me: I'll meet you. But tell me who you are first.

The reply came a few minutes later.

Unknown: My name is Grace. I was a close friend of your grandmother's.

I sat up straight.

Me: How do I know you're telling the truth?

Grace: You don't. Not yet. But tomorrow I'll show you something your father has been hiding for years. 

Me: What?

This time she took longer.

Grace: Another photograph. Your father, on the night you were born.

I looked again at the one she'd already sent: my father outside the hospital, a newborn in his arms, my grandmother beside him. I had always believed my birth was an ordinary family story. Now I wasn't sure the baby in that picture was me.

Grace: Meet me at the café on King Street at 10 a.m. Come alone.

Part of me wanted to block the number and forget all of this. I had already lost my home, and I couldn't afford to lose the little peace I had left. But my father's voice kept ringing in my ear. “Whatever anyone tells you about the night you were born, don't believe them”. He wouldn't have called to say that if there were nothing to find.

I stood up and picked up my bag.

A few streets away was a small guesthouse, not the kind of place I would normally stay, but my savings would cover one night. At reception the attendant handed over a key without really looking at me. The room was tiny, with faded curtains and a fan that clicked every time it turned. I dropped my bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed.

Then I cried again, quietly, the way I had at home. When it was over I lay back and listened to the fan.

My phone buzzed.

Grace: Amelia, there's something else you should know before we meet.

Me: What?

Grace: Your grandmother didn't only want to find you. She wanted to take you away from your parents.

I read it twice. The woman in Mum's drawer of photographs, the grandmother I could hardly remember, had wanted me from my own parents? 

Before I could answer, one more line came through.

Grace: And your father knew why.

I put the phone face down on the pillow and listened to the fan click round and round. Ten o'clock was a long way off.