She bought Rebecca books. She helped her with homework even when she was exhausted. She made sure Rebecca went to church every Sunday in a clean dress, even if the hem had been mended. On Rebecca’s birthdays, she baked a small cake, nothing fancy, just simple vanilla with a little icing, and sang in a soft, slightly off-key voice that Rebecca had loved completely.
Rebecca had been happy in the simple, uncomplicated way children are happy when they feel safe and loved. But there had always been 1 question sitting quietly at the back of everything. Where is my father?
She had asked it for the first time when she was about 6 years old. She had come home from school, where a teacher had asked the class to draw a picture of their family. Rebecca had drawn herself and her mother, then looked at the empty space beside them and not known what to put there.
Victoria had been quiet for a long time after that question. She was mending a blue dress, and she kept her eyes on the needle when she finally answered.
“His name was Simon,” she said. Her voice was flat and careful, like someone walking on a floor they were not sure would hold them. “We were young. Things did not work out.”