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When Quinn arrived in Brae with Lottie, my poor girl was so terrified and confused she wouldn’t speak. It was only when I finally came home to her she really believed I wasn’t dead, and for months she refused to let me out of her sight.
It was the same for me. At night, I’d lie on the covers of her bed next to her, watching her as she slept. I couldn’t stop looking at her, the miracle of her. Stroking that white-blonde hair, still not able to quite take it in. Restored to me. My girl.
It’s taking time for us to find our way back to each other. She’s changed in so many ways and I don’t know how much of that is part of the natural process of growing up, and how much is because of what she’s been through. And yet, despite her long absence, she seems so much like herself, the same stubborn girl who refused to let anyone help her tie her shoelaces, who ripped off her nappy when she was two and demanded to use the toilet. Lottie’s come through this, not unscathed, no; but intact, herself.
And she remembers me. When I find myself filled with rage against Luca, I remind myself of that. He didn’t try to erase me. He told Lottie I’d gone away, but he kept my memory alive. Did he know, deep down, I’d find them one day? Was this his way of atoning for the terrible wrong he did me?
I’ve forgiven him. I often remind myself of Helen Birch, the extraordinary compassion she showed me.You have to let the hatred and anger go. That’s the deal you’ve done with the universe.
I don’t mourn Luca’s death, because for me he died years ago, but I do grieve the loss of the man he used to be; the man I married. That’s the father I want Lottie to remember. I’ll keep him alive for her, as he did for me.
For Marc, there’s no such absolution. He’s in prison now, caught up in the Paul Harding paedophile sting. Jack saw to that. Marc may be innocent of the charges that landed him in jail, but I don’t feel guilty. He deserves to be there.
Lottie comes running back to me now and grabs a swig of her lemonade, spilling a little on the table as she thumps the glass down, before racing off again. She looks like any happy, carefree six-year-old playing in the June sunshine.
I knew we’d turned a corner two months ago, the first time she let me leave Harriet’s cottage in Brae without her. Until then, she’d always insisted on coming with me wherever I went, even if I was only popping out for a pint of milk.
I’d got my shopping list together and gone into my sister’s art studio, where Lottie had been lying on her tummy, colouring a picture of three baby owls sitting on a branch.
‘Are you coming, darling?’ I asked.
‘Can I stay here with Auntie Harriet?’ Lottie had asked, without looking up. ‘I want to finish my picture.’
Harriet’s paintbrush had frozen in mid-air.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘You don’t mind if I go out without you?’
‘I’m sure,’ she’d said, reaching for a different-coloured pencil. She’d glanced at the baby owls, an illustration from her favourite story book, and then looked back up at me, and smiled.
‘Mummies always come back,’ she said.
