That is the one. The others I can read.
Two years of a young man writing into a silence, deciding, reasonably, that the silence meant something — and it did mean something, and the thing it meant was that his mother had said get rid of them in a kitchen one night in a state and had then spent two years not asking.
Because that is the bit.
I never asked.
Not once in twenty-three months did I say to Freya: has anything come. Not once did I ring Larkmoor, whose number I have had since 2006.
I did not need Freya to hide anything from me. I had already decided not to look, and she simply made it possible for me to go on not looking without having to see an envelope on the mat.
And the nine days of telling it wrong, which cost somebody something and which I have had to go and undo.
