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Adam

Mum opens the front door with a smile. Her conker-brown bob has more whiteish streaks than usual, but she’s wearing her normal dog-walking uniform: tan trousers and a navy fleece. She’s joined by Bella and Max, who pad into the hall, barking shrilly.

‘There you are! I’m so happy you’re both here.’

She kisses me, her hair grazing my cheek. The scent reminds me of past trips to the beach during the summer. Whenever Dad was away, speaking at applied maths conferences, we’d have barbecues in one of the nearby coves together. I blink away the memory.

‘It’s good to see you too, Mum.’

She lingers close to Wren as she pets the dogs.

‘You’ve got big since Christmas. You’ll be taller than me before long!’

‘Hello, Grandma.’

Wren hesitates before giving her a hug, making a smile creep across Mum’s face. My daughter must have shot up; Mum is smaller than I remember as she kisses the top of Wren’s head.

‘That name makes me sound old,’ she says, laughing. ‘I don’t feel ancient enough to be called one, despite all the grey.’

She tugs a lock of hair. I look past her at the pictures lining the staircase wall of my success in competitions from primary school onwards.

They’re next to Dad’s framed certificates, which record a lifetime of distinguished achievements from his PhD at Cambridge to lecturing in maths at Trinity College, as well as Birmingham and Plymouth universities.

A large framed photo of him stares back: a helmet of grey hair, furrowed forehead and thin, straight lips.

I remember the flash of joy on his gaunt, deathly white face when I vowed to follow in his footsteps.

Now, his disappointment weighs heavily on my shoulders and even the grandfather clock sounds judgemental, tutting in the background.

‘You should be used to being called Grandma by now.’ A brittle edge creeps into my voice.

‘I would if I saw you both more often,’ she replies lightly. ‘It’s been months!’

I frown at her. ‘Erm, can I at least take off my coat before we start arguing?’

‘Nonsense! No one’s quarrelling today. We’re all going to get on perfectly well.’

‘I could call you Nan or Nana?’ Wren suggests, dropping her rucksack on the floor.

‘Grandma is fine. I’m just feeling my age. Come and have a drink and sit down. I’ve made sandwiches – you must both be starving.’

Aagh. It slipped my mind to reply to her text about lunch.

‘Sorry! I forgot to say, we stopped off in Plymouth to grab something to eat.’

Mum sighs with exasperation as she leads us into the kitchen. ‘Your daddy would forget his own head if it wasn’t attached to his body, Wren. What else won’t he remember to tell me?’

‘We almost had a crash on the motorway.’

Mum glances back worriedly at me.

‘There was a nasty pile-up, but we’re all right,’ I say.

‘After that we had lunch with Sophie in a Mexican restaurant,’ Wren adds helpfully. ‘I had tacos and guaccy maccy.’

‘She means guacamole.’

Mum stops in her tracks. ‘Sophie?’

‘She’s Adam’s old friend from school,’ Wren explains. ‘She’s making a quilt from Mummy’s old clothes.’

‘You’re back in touch with Sophie Leroux?’ Mum gasps.

‘We bumped into each other in Bristol. It was...’

Fate. A coincidence. A miraculous, wonderful, mathematical improbability.

I search for the right words.

‘It was pure chance I popped into the dry cleaners where she works,’ I say finally. ‘She’s creating a memory quilt for us and... well, it’s purely professional.’

‘Fancy that!’

She raises an eyebrow. Is that a disguised criticism about her job? Mum and Dad always had narrow definitions of what they considered ‘acceptable professions’.

‘She’s a seamstress and very creative,’ I say tightly. ‘Her designs are incredible.’

‘That’s great.’ She pauses. ‘Have you seen much of her? Workwise, I mean?’

‘Yes!’ Wren pipes up before I can reply.

‘She came to our house, and we’ve visited her at work loads .

We went to the zoo together and Walter’s party.

He has a dog called Chico who’s scared of garden gnomes.

’ She takes a breath. ‘Adam’s invited Sophie to another party next weekend.

I can’t go because children aren’t allowed.

But Adam said I can have chocolate ice cream if you’re in a good mood. ’

Mum’s mouth almost hits the floor, and the tips of my ears burn bright red. I need to have words with my daughter about not being a snitch, but she’s on a roll.

‘Adam has a goofy smile and pink cheeks when he talks to Sophie, and he walks into things,’ she continues. ‘He’s clumsy!’

‘Interesting.’ A smile hovers on Mum’s lips. ‘He was always like that around her.’

‘That’s not true!’ I protest.

‘And he gets red spots on his neck when he lies,’ Wren points out.

‘You’re absolutely right!’

‘I’m feeling ganged up on,’ I say, sighing.

‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’ Mum turns to Wren. ‘Do you want to check out your bedroom before we take the dogs for a walk? There might be a small present on the bed.’

‘Hurray!’

‘It’s a novel about unicorns,’ she explains after Wren dashes out.

‘Great. Thank you.’

I want to add she doesn’t need to keep buying gifts for Wren, but that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. She walks over to the kettle and fills it with water, while I sit down. An uncomfortable silence descends.

‘Is Sophie well?’ Mum asks finally.

‘She is, actually. I’m planning to see her tomorrow and in the week.’

I’m waiting for a veiled barb, but she smiles. ‘That’s good. I always liked Sophie.’

I stare at her, stunned. ‘No, you didn’t. You thought she got in the way of my studies. Dad was the same.’

‘We were worried about how you’d balance revision with seeing her, but you managed it. I knew she made you happy.’

She still does , I think to myself.

‘It’ll do you good to get some downtime when you’ve been tied up with teaching and looking after Wren. It must be hard to fit in your dissertation?’

I bristle inwardly. ‘I will get my PhD... if that’s what you mean? I should finish this final draft soon.’

‘No, I was wondering how you’re managing it all. You were stressed and tired over Christmas, and we haven’t spoken much since.’ She pours boiling water into the mugs. ‘How are you feeling about Stanford now you have more distance from it?’

Aagh! I know I’m a long way from what Dad wanted for me. I don’t need her to point this out. Despite all my good intentions to make an effort, irritation flares and I can’t keep it in.

‘Yes, I get it. I’ve thrown my life away. I’m a massive disappointment to you and Dad, even though I’m helping pupils in my class. Thanks for the reminder.’ I check my watch. ‘Exactly six minutes after I’ve arrived!’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Adam!’ She throws her hands in the air. ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m worried when you’re trying to do so much single-handed. You’re pale and clearly exhausted.’

‘Great. I look like a train wreck. Thanks.’

‘I can’t seem to say anything without you taking massive offence!’

I scrape my chair back. ‘Can we not do this now, please? As you said, we don’t want to quarrel. I’ll hurry Wren up, and we can head out for that walk.’

Mum and I call an uneasy truce and take Wren to the beach.

We watch the sea tractor trundle through the incoming tide to the Burgh Island hotel, throw balls for Bella and Max and walk further along the shore towards Bantham beach, collecting seashells in a bucket.

Wren finds a dead crab and insists we give it a proper burial in the sand before we head home for a supper of home-made lasagne and a chocolate cake from the local bakery.

After watching Frozen for approximately the millionth time, on my parents’ faded green velvet sofa, we all head upstairs.

‘Let’s have a pleasant day tomorrow,’ Mum says, reaching up to kiss me on the cheek.

This is her coded plea that we don’t fight. I don’t want to either, but I fall back into old patterns whenever I’m here.

‘Can I give my granddaughter a goodnight kiss?’

Wren nods and receives hers before skipping into the bathroom.

While she brushes her teeth, I unpack in my old bedroom.

My duvet is the same faded navy, the wardrobe contains old T-shirts I’d forgotten I owned, and my shelves are crammed with school trophies and maths textbooks.

My old tennis and track fixtures are tacked to the crumbling cork-board on the wall.

Scattered between them are photos of me and Sophie.

I pull one off, and stare at our happy faces.

Our arms are wrapped around each other, and I can make out the chain of her Mobius strip necklace.

This was taken the week before our prom party.

I slip it into my back pocket and notice a row of pearly-white seashells on my bedside table.

My heart squeezes. This is the treasure Wren found on the beach. .. she must have left it as a present.

I knock before entering the spare room. The wallpaper used to be a drab green pattern, but Mum painted the walls light blue and fixed fluorescent stars on the ceiling after learning she was a grandma.

Wren’s sitting in bed, yawning and sewing the seams of one of Sophie’s shapes, cut from turquoise fabric.

‘Thank you for my shells!’

‘Okey-dokey,’ she says, without looking up.

‘Erm, why don’t you do this tomorrow?’

‘Grandma said we’re going to the beach in the morning, and I want to get it done before we see Sophie. She needs all our shapes. I don’t want to let her down.’

‘You can barely keep your eyes open!’

She gives another huge yawn.

‘How about I take over while you go to sleep? I’ll sew mine as well and we can give them all to her.’

‘Do you promise you’ll finish them tonight?’ She holds my gaze unwaveringly.

‘Yes! I swear they’ll be ready for you in the morning. Now go to sleep.’

She passes me the material and needle and thread, snuggling deeper into her bed.

‘Today was fun! Almost as fun as Walter’s party, except we didn’t go bodyboarding.’

‘We’ll have more fun tomorrow and bodyboarding.’

‘What about the sea tractor? Can we have a ride?’

‘100 per cent!’

She smiles sleepily. ‘Good night, Da—’ She stops herself abruptly. ‘Adam.’

I grin back. ‘Good night, Da-Wren.’

She giggles. ‘See da tomorrow, Da-Adam!’

‘Da too!’

I turn on the night light and am about to leave when I spot the framed picture of me, Carley and Wren on the shelf. She’s brought it with her and has it on show instead of burying it at the bottom of her bedroom drawer.

My heart swells with emotion as I leave the door open eight centimetres as per Carley’s instructions. Back in my bedroom, I place Wren’s sewing and my unfinished shapes on the desk and grab my rucksack.

As I pull out my laptop and files, my smile grows wider.

That was the closest Wren has ever got to calling me Daddy.