A mother never forgets the child she had to surrender. If anything, the passing years add layers of alternative histories and the emotional nuances of loss, regrets and the conflicting relationships with family members whose motivations were never monochrome. My heart strings were stretched to breaking point - and finely tuned by the tragic purity of the resolution.
It's only a blur. I remember the white-tiled floor and that all the ceiling lights were on, and that it seemed unnaturally bright. I remember the new way my father looked at me, with knowingness and contempt. He asked what kind of girl I was, if I was trying to stitch up some fella, trying to get him in trouble. Mostly, my mother and father talked to each other: I cried, as quietly as I could, wiping my eyes first on one sleeve of my school blouse, and when that was sodden, on the other sleeve; and when that was sodden too, on the front of my blouse, a scratchy polyester that irritated the skin around my eyes, so that as the hours wore on, my eyes were so puffy that I was hardly able to see. The discussion went on and on - about me, about what to do with me. Send her to San Fernando? Send her to England? The States? Barbados? Jamaica?
