‘Post’s late today,’ Sheila announced, joining me in the kitchen at the start of her shift on Monday morning and rifling through some envelopes. ‘Junk mail and bills by the look of it. And a card for you. Pretty handwriting.’
Putting down the mixing bowl, I reached for the burgundy envelope, my heart thumping at the familiar sight of Kirsten’s calligraphy next to the solicitor’s redirection sticker.
‘Are you okay, my dear?’ Sheila asked. ‘Is it bad news?’
‘It’s from my foster parents. They send a card every Christmas and birthday and I’ve kept them all in a box, unopened. It’s been a year of letting people in and Carly thinks it’s time to let my foster parents back into my life.’
‘I think Carly speaks sense.’
‘It’s a big thing, though.’
‘So start small. Start with the card. If you like what you read, you could open the others. If you don’t like what you read, leave it there.’
I smiled at her, grateful for her wise words. ‘I’m glad you came to work here, Sheila.’
‘Aw, thank you, my love. That’s very kind of you. Now why don’t you go upstairs and open that card. If it goes crazy down here, we can always buzz you.’
Be brave.
I nodded. ‘Just make sure you do buzz.’
We swapped places and Sheila picked up the whisk and started mixing. ‘Go on. I know it’s scary, but you know you need to do it.’
Sitting on the sofa with Hercules tucked in next to me, I took a deep breath, opened the envelope and removed the contents. I placed the Christmas card on the arm of the sofa and unfolded the cream pages of the letter, written in Kirsten’s flowing script rather than typed:
Dear Tamara
It’s been 14½ years yet there isn’t a day that passes when Tim and I don’t think about you and miss you. Every time the phone rings, I hope to hear your voice. Every time the post arrives, I hope to see your writing.
I have no idea whether you open my cards and letters. Tim thinks not. He’s convinced that, if you’d opened and read them, you’d have got in touch. I’m not so sure. You’ve been betrayed by the people you love and I can understand the desire to sever the connection.
When you left, you asked us not to try and find you and, hard as it is, we’ve respected that wish because we know how badly Leanne and Garth hurt you. Hurt all of us.
You have no idea how often I’ve typed your name into Google and forced myself not to press ‘enter.’ Then something appeared on my Facebook news feed recently. I barely ever look at social media but I found myself drawn to it a couple of weeks ago. I think it was fate because a friend of a friend or something like that had shared and commented on an article about some local business awards in Whitsborough Bay and, as I glanced at the picture, who did I see?
I cannot begin to tell you how proud Tim and I are of the woman you’ve become and everything you’ve achieved. I am thrilled that you took your talent and experience and opened your own café. Award-winning café, no less! And your work in the community tells me you have become the person you always wanted to be: someone kind who helps others. Not that we ever doubted that. Our little Pollyanna always was a sensitive and caring individual.
Because you are sensitive and caring, I know that this next part is going to hurt. You may have physically taken yourself out of our lives, but I know that you will still be here emotionally. I was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year. It was in one breast, but I made the decision to have a double mastectomy. I won’t lie. It was a pretty terrifying time for us. Thankfully, everything’s looking good, but it made us re-evaluate our lives. We’ve sold The Larches and Vanilla Pod, and Tim has taken early retirement. What matters to us now is family and there’s a vital part of our family missing. We want you in our lives. We need you in our lives.
As the saying goes, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain. We have rented a cottage just outside Whitby from Monday 10th December until the end of January. My Christmas wish is to have my daughter back. It’s been my Christmas wish every year since they drove you away but, this time, I’m determined to make it happen. Life is short and precious. I’ve been lucky. They caught the cancer in time, but it could have been a different story and I would have left this world filled with regret that I let you go out of our lives. We never let you go out of our hearts, though.
I’ve put our mobile numbers, the cottage details and the address of the apartment we’re renting in London below. Please pick up the phone, text me, email, write. I don’t care how you do it but please, I beg of you, make contact.
Yours hopefully, with all my love, always
Kirsten xxx
Tears rained down my cheeks as I reached for my mobile and dialled.
‘Hello? Kirsten speaking.’ I hadn’t heard her gentle, soothing voice for so many years, yet it was so familiar to me.
‘Mum? It’s me.’
And neither of could speak for the next five minutes for crying.