with the reverse. Sophia’s friends cried when they were dropped off at nursery or clung to their parents instead of exploring at soft play. “She’s so confident,” they’d say, admiring the way Sophia trotted off without a care in the world. “You’d expect her to be clingy, after what she’s been through.”
I know a lot about attachment disorder now. I know it’s very common among adopted children, especially ones who were fostered before finding their forever families. I know the symptoms (in Sophia’s case: a refusal of affection and inappropriate affection toward strangers) and I know the best way to deal with it. It isn’t Sophia’s fault—she’s a victim of circumstance. I know that.
What I don’t know—what I’ve never known—is how to stop it hurting.
It shouldn’t matter how I feel, of course. It’s Sophia who gets the help, and rightly so—any kid born to a neglectful mother deserves to be the focus of attention. I should be able to rise above it, to smile when she turns away from a cuddle and say, I’ll still be here if you change your mind.
Try it.
Try it with the child you’ve brought up, the child you’ve loved as your own from the second you saw her. Try it, then tell me it doesn’t break your heart.
Sophia looks at me, and without taking her eyes off mine, she holds out a hand to Becca, who hesitates for a second, then takes it. A lump forms in my throat, and I think I might suffocate.
“Um—” Becca starts, shuffling her boots in the snow.
“Just go back to the house!”
I drop back on my heels, and when they’re gone, I sit in the dark in the snowy park, and I sob.
Half an hour later, Sophia and I are eating the lasagna Mina left, Sophia picking out the red peppers and leaving them on the side of her plate. Becca’s had a salad and three slices of toast, the burger charred beyond redemption. I’ve locked the back door and closed the bolt at the top of the front door, just in case Sophia goes wandering again. I look at Becca.
“You should be getting home.”
“It’s okay. I’m not going out tonight.”
“I can’t—” I don’t know how to finish without inviting scorn—or pity. Mina left Becca’s money in an envelope. I can’t pay her for the extra hours. “I haven’t been to a cashpoint.”
There’s a tiny pause. “It’s okay. I’ll stay for a bit. Help you get her ready for bed.”
I wonder how much Becca knows about what’s going on between me and Mina. Did Mina say she doesn’t trust me, doesn’t think I’m fit to look after my own daughter? Did she ask her to stay till Sophia’s in bed?
Maybe it isn’t Mina. Maybe it was Katya who said I can’t be trusted. They knew each other, but were they friends? How close were they? Did Katya confide in Becca, even though I swore her to secrecy? Paranoia crawls across me like an itch I can’t reach.
“Can we have flapjacks?” Sophia asks. “They’re in there.” She points to a tin by the kettle, and I take off the lid and put it on the table. “I made them.”
“Clever you.” Becca takes one. “I like baking too. Did you know you can collect ingredients for free from outside? I made pine-needle biscuits, and you can use dandelions too. There are loads of foraging websites.”
“That’s weird.” Sophia looks at me, bored by a conversation she doesn’t understand. “I want to see Mummy again.” I bring up the tracking app and slide it across to her. “Thanks, Daddy.” She beams at me, a gorgeous smile that dimples her cheeks and makes me return it, unquestioningly. She is a mass of contradictions, with no comprehension that each time she pulls away from me, she drives a knife through my heart.
Of course she doesn’t understand, Mina would say. She’s five! You’re the grown-up. You have to be the understanding one.
Sophia traces her finger along the line that shows the route Mina’s plane is taking. “The passengers get lunch, then dinner, then breakfast,” she tells Becca, “and in between, there are snacks and lots of drinks—whatever they want.”
“Have you ever been on a plane?”
“Loads of times! I’ve been to France, and Spain, and to America…”
“Lucky girl. When I was your age, we used to go to a caravan park once a year. I didn’t go abroad till last year, and that was on the ferry.”
“Caravans are nice too,” Sophia says kindly. She hops off her