My mother and Leo are a different matter entirely. She has him on the phone twice a week. She has taught him to make something with pastry that I cannot make.
There is a photograph of Rhys on my hallway wall now too. I did not have one for ten years.
Leo knows. All of it, at ten, told properly over about four conversations by me and a woman who does this for a living.
He has been fine and I have not, and that is the correct way round.
Here is the only thing I have.
Everybody wants this to be about a father who threw his pregnant daughter out and got what he deserved on his own porch.
He did that, and he has to live in it, and he knows exactly what he did.
But there is a difference between a secret you are keeping for somebody and a secret you have started to enjoy holding.
