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“I’m really not sure how we’re supposed to do this, so why don’t I let you lead? What questions have you got? How do you see this going?” I ask.

Maddie huffs and walks to the sofa, sinking into it. She curls her legs up underneath her.

“Do you want me to stay or go?” Delilah glances at Maddie and then at me.

“Can you wait in the kitchen for a bit?” Maddie replies.

Delilah nods and then walks out of the living room, shutting the door behind her, but not quick enough for me to not hear her heavy sigh and catch the look of rejection on her face. I think back to that meeting in the flat, their easy and fun interaction. Has everything been destroyed between them, taken Delilah from a trusted half-sister to the woman who lied to her for most of her life?

“May I sit?” I gesture towards the sofa.

Maddie shrugs and then grabs one of the cushions, pulling it closer to her body, almost like she’s hiding behind it.

“Delilah says you didn’t know she was pregnant with me,” she states.

“I didn’t. Though I guess that isn’t so much that she didn’t tell me, probably more that I didn’t give her the opportunity.”

I take a seat on the opposite section of the sofa to where she is. She picks some imaginary fluff from the cushion she’s holding.

“She said you left because you had somebody you were trying to protect?” There’s an inflection to her tone, like she doesn’t quite believe what she’s been told.

“It sounds like she’s told you a lot. Why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll fill in the blanks,” I suggest.

“She didn’t tell me you were a famous movie star. I used to tease her about you, you know. When there were articles about you in the magazines or on social media, I would forward them to her and ask her what happened between you, why the famous movie star didn’t stick around after that night in the flat. I kind of feel bad about that.”

“You weren’t to know.” I keep my tone nonjudgemental, and as pissed off as I am with Delilah and her actions over the years, I can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for her. If somebody had been sending me articles about Delilah for months or even years on end, I’d probably have lost my cool.

“Delilah told me you were a teacher. Well, she said student teacher. She said you saved her at a time when nobody except my uncle Felix cared about her. She said you left to be with somebody you’d made a promise to protect. She told me you were honourable and kind,” Maddie says, reeling off little pieces of information.

It’s all far more generous than I expected Delilah to be about me. I half expected to be told that I’d been described as the spawn of Satan—or worse, as a predator who took advantage of her vulnerability.

“I loved your….” My voice trails off for a moment, because the next word I want to say is mother, but it’s clear it probably isn’t a term Maddie uses to describe Delilah. I wonder if she’ll ever call me Dad. Do I even have any rights to wish for that to be a reality? I shake my head and clear my throat. “Dee was very special to me. I wanted to help her with the things going on in her life, and it developed into love after she left the sixth form. I cared for her, more than I’ve cared for anybody before.”

“So you did love her?”

“Yes. In the same desperate way any twenty-two-year-old loves, with the pure belief that it’ll last forever.”

“But it didn’t last forever, because you left her,” Maddie points out.

“When you’re twenty-two, maybe you’ll have the same kind of love. Things may not always work out in the way we expect, but that love leaves a notch in our soul and hearts.”

She doesn’t flinch at the suggestion of being twenty-two. The first time I saw her, she was eleven. Now she’s thirteen. For most teenagers, the twenties seem like a lifetime away. I wonder if Maddie’s diagnosis has made it seem even a further possibility to reach.

“Delilah said you like the theatre.” Maddie changes direction.

“I always loved acting. I don’t do much stage work now, but I always loved the stage and a live audience.”

“I didn’t like your last movie,” she quips, making me chuckle.

“Fair enough.”

“I watched it when I was having chemo, so maybe I need to give it another go now that my brain isn’t so foggy. I just thought the book was better.”

“They usually are. Besides, I’m not expecting you to become a fan.” I chuckle again.

“Well, just so you know, don’t think about inviting me for any red-carpet events anytime soon. I think I need to get over being the kid in school with cancer before I admit to being the kid whose sister is actually her mother and whose father is actually a famous movie star.” She rolls her eyes.

“You think red-carpet events in the future?” I ask. It’s a tentative question, moving us into a topic that I didn’t expect to broach today.