I know I must hide. I’ve been gone more than ten minutes. Jack’s going to find out any second now that I’m not where he thought I was. But I can’t tear myself away from that photo.
I turn it over. On the back is written: Jasmine and me, 2000.
Jasmine?
My mum’s name is Jamila.
Questions are tumbling quickly through my mind, too confused for me to pinpoint clearly, and I want answers – but to what, I’m not exactly sure. I can’t help myself. I know I shouldn’t, but I kneel down and open the flaps of the collapsed box.
There are no bank or credit card statements inside. Instead, I find a jumble of photos, newspaper clippings, letters and what I think are old-fashioned computer disks. I don’t have time to read anything through, because I’m in real danger of discovery any moment now, but still I can’t tear myself away. I leaf through the contents of the box, unable to make any sense of anything.
Another photo, this time of a Sikh wedding.
I’ve never been to a Sikh wedding. I’ve never been to any wedding, ever, but I’ve seen pictures and read about them in books at primary school. The bride wears a red lengha, shimmering with golden embroidery, and matching gold jewellery – long earrings, armfuls of bangles, a ring on every finger attached to delicate chains that meet at her wrists. Her hands are painted with intricate patterns of henna.
That’s what my mum is wearing in this picture.
And the bridegroom? He wears a dark suit and a red turban. I can see that the man marrying my mum is not my dad.
The bridegroom is the same man from the first photo.