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“Of course.”

“Would it be okay if I gave you my number? You could contact me anytime you like,” I explain.

She slips her hand into the skirt of her uniform and hands me a top-of-the-range phone, unlocking the screen before she does so.

I key in my number, adding my full name as the contact information. I pass her the phone back and then rise from the sofa, picking up the book from the coffee table.

“It’s been nice meeting you,” Maddie states.

“It has been my pleasure, Maddie,” I reply.

I want to give her a hug, hold her tight and tell her I would walk to the end of the earth for her, but I know it would probably freak her out. I know she has a lot she needs to keep her focus on, and it must be a whirlwind in her head right now, everything uprooted and changed.

Instead, I give her another smile before I leave her in the living room. In the hallway, I can hear the soft conversation from the kitchen. It sounds like Delilah, and she sounds either on the verge of tears or already crying. I don’t know where Verity, Felix, and Caleb went to, so I assume she’s talking to Simon.

It would be logical and polite to go in and say goodbye, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Saying we’ve called a truce is one thing; actually living it, especially when she’s crying, is another.

So I don’t in go to say goodbye. I just put my shoes back on and head out of the house, towards my car, clutching the scrapbook to my chest. I take a quick glance over my shoulder and spot Maddie through the window, watching me walk away.

I just hope she knows I mean my promise that I’ll come back.

***

I let myself into my house, throw my keys on the side table, and go into the living room. I sit on the sofa and open the scrapbook, turning the pages from the beginning, this time feeling like I can take things in properly.

I stare again at the photograph of Delilah and Maddie taken just after the birth. Underneath, in the handwriting that I recognise as Delilah’s, is some information. Date of birth, coupled with the time. The hospital she was born in. Her weight. Head circumference. Length. Eye colour.

The following page has a graph, tracking every weigh-in for Maddie’s first year. I wonder if Verity was the one who took Maddie to the health visitor appointments, if she was the one who took her for her injections and health checks. Or did Delilah take her? I vaguely recall Delilah saying that she didn’t move in with Felix immediately after I left, that she lived with her father for a while. I try to remember exactly what she told me. Was it a year? Shorter than that? Longer? A year would mean she lived in the same house as Maddie for a few months after the birth. How involved was she with everything? How much did it hurt to be part of her life, but on the outside? How hard was it to pack her things up and leave the house so she could move in with Felix? Was there a point where she almost changed her mind, almost decided she wanted to keep Maddie, seek me out, and try to be a family?

I shake my head to dislodge thoughts of Delilah. Letting myself feel sympathy for her and what she went through is a slippery slope. A truce, yes. Forgiveness? I’m fucking miles away from that, and I’m sure—for different reasons—she’s the same with me. It doesn’t matter how much we say we want a truce, the facts about the topics we can’t forgive are clear. I left her behind at the worst point of her life. She denied me the ability to know our child. They’re both things we cannot easily erase.

I flick through to the next page. There’s a picture of Maddie, taking what looks like her first steps, a determined look on her face as she totters around in a pair of dungarees. There’s a photograph of her on a plastic swing in what looks to be a back garden, her hair flying out in all directions, looking like she’s laughing. One of her colouring a picture with an array of chunky wax crayons next to her, and on the next page, a piece of paper folded up and stuck into the scrapbook. I flick it open and smile at the haphazardly coloured-in picture, the trees pink, the grass purple, and the animals in multicolours.

I run my fingers over the page. I can feel the wax on the paper, and I realise that this is a real picture rather than a photocopy. Has Delilah given away the only one she had that Maddie coloured in, or does she have a shoebox full, one she pulled out from a cupboard and searched through to find one she didn’t mind sacrificing to give to me?

I flip through more pages and smile at everything. There are images of Maddie flying a kite. Jumping into a swimming pool. Cuddling a hamster. Looking awed at the big tank for the aquarium as the fish swim around. One with her eating an ice cream, the vanilla cream all around her mouth. Another with a big cloud of candy floss on a stick, her eyes wide as she stared at her treat. There’s one of her riding a donkey on the beach. Running in a field. Copies of school photographs, some the same I saw in Verity’s living room. There’s a chart that shows the ages she lost her teeth. A list of her first words and the dates first spoken. Dates she took her first steps, including where they were taken.

There’s so much information in the book. It’s everything that I might want to know about my daughter, and a reminder of everything I missed out on with her.

My mobile chimes. I put the scrapbook down and pull my phone from my pocket, half of me hoping that it’s Maddie, frowning slightly when I realise it’s Pippa. I’m not exactly her favourite client at the moment, and I’m sure she’s going to be saying the same type of things she did before I returned from the States.

“Hey, Pip,” I say as I answer, hoping to head off some of her annoyances.

“Joseph.” The use of my full name makes it clear she’s still not happy. “I take it you’re home, that you followed through with your plans to see this girl?”

“By ‘girl,’ you mean my daughter, or her mother?” I ask.

“You know I’m just concerned about you, right?” she replies.

“I know you’re concerned, but I’m not going to hide that I have a daughter. If everything comes out into the open, I’ll ride through it. I don’t care.”

“If she is your daughter,” Pippa counters.

“Out of respect for our friendship and professional relationship, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, but I will say I don’t ever want to hear that again,” I warn.

“Joseph, are you—”

“She is my daughter. No doubt about it,” I snap.