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I didn't tell my mother about Gerald.

She would not have been able to bear it. When I was small and asked about my father — once, just once — the response was a series of slaps and a locked room and no dinner. I learned to erase the question entirely. Later, when she was drunk, she'd grab my wrist and look at me with something close to hatred:

"I don't know what I was thinking, having you. These eyes of yours. I can barely stand to look at them."

The words attached themselves to me for years.

But when I finally met Gerald, I understood where they came from. I looked too much like his family. Particularly the eyes. My mother had spent twenty-something years being reminded every day of something she wanted to forget.

My leg was in a bad state. Gerald had called in considerable professional resources to find Dr. Phillip Smith, a consultant orthopaedic surgeon, and the waiting list meant I needed to be in London within the month. I'd proposed returning to Bristol first to handle a few things — resign from my position, sort out my address registration, organise the practical side of the move.

My mother had known about the injury. She'd left several voicemails, mostly about the inconvenience of having to deal with the aftermath if I'd died somewhere inconvenient. If I didn't come back to Bristol at all, she'd told me, she'd call my editors until something happened.

So I'd come back.

Gerald had also promised to help me recover what had been taken from me. My original LSE application — the one Lily had quietly redirected without my knowledge — had been for Economics. Once I was well enough, he intended to make that right.

I wasn't going to refuse. I'd nearly died. I was done being polite about the life I actually wanted.