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Adam

The old photo of me hugging Sophie, along with Wren’s shells and the sewing materials, lie next to my laptop as I finish typing my dissertation.

It’s past midnight. I only need to check a few more calculations before sending it off.

Then I’ll finish stitching the shapes for Wren and Sophie.

I’m taking another swig of coffee when my email pings.

It’s Dr Hunt! He must have a sixth sense I’m working late. I click on his update.

Dear Adam

My colleagues and I have reviewed your friend’s unique geometric shape and we’re excited about its potential. We wish to investigate further. This will require funded postdoctoral research that could lead to a tenured position. We all agree, one person is best placed to take this forward – you!

Are you interested in pursuing this after you’ve been awarded your PhD?

If so, please email a funding proposal to me by close of play today.

I can review over the weekend and present to the board on Monday afternoon.

If approved, we could offer a paid position in the department, beginning as soon as you are able to arrange your visa and return to the States.

Let me know if you are keen and we shall proceed. We also need to arrange the oral exam for your dissertation when delivered, as previously discussed.

Yours sincerely

Dr Hunt

I can’t believe it! This could be the first step in making my name at Stanford and honouring my dad’s memory... all thanks to Sophie.

I reply: Will get the proposal over to you ASAP, and the final draft of my dissertation!

I tiptoe downstairs to the kitchen and fill a vacuum flask with coffee, feeling Dad’s pride radiating from the photo on the staircase. Returning to my desk, I push the shells and sewing bundle to one side, open a new Word document on my laptop and begin typing.

Four and a half hours later, I re-read my funding proposal for the fifth time and tap out the final words of my dissertation’s conclusions.

After attaching both documents to Dr Hunt’s email, I lean back, yawning and stretching my arms above my head.

My work tonight, today , is potentially life-changing.

My eyelids droop. A troubling thought hits and I sit bolt upright, almost falling out of my chair.

I’ve been caught up in creating the best possible pitch and haven’t considered the implications if the board says yes.

It would fulfil the promise I made to my dad, easing my guilt.

But I’d have to pull Wren out of school, ripping her away from friends and her grandma.

Will I quit my job that I’m finding strangely fulfilling, abandoning struggling pupils like Khalid?

How will Mum react? She’s on her own now Dad’s gone. We’re all she has left.

Then there’s Sophie... We’ve only just found each other again. Do I want to rip us apart before we’ve had a chance to see if, well, there is an ‘us’?

Hmmm.

Uncertainty grips me. My fingers hover over the keyboard.

My heartbeat quickens. I breathe out slowly, trying to calm it. There’s no rush. I don’t need to make up my mind now... I have plenty of time to weigh up my options if the university makes an offer. I exhale and hit the send button.

I watch the email disappear into the ether, before collapsing fully clothed on the bed. I’m asleep within seconds.

‘It’s morning, Da-Adam! Grandma said to come downstairs and get yummy pancakes.’

Wren bounds into the room and leaps on my bed, jumping up and down. Despite my sleep-deprived state, I manage a smile as she hurdles over me. I grope for my phone on the bedside table. It’s 7.45 a.m. I’ve had three hours’ sleep. It feels like far less.

‘Tell Grandma to start without me, Da-Wren,’ I say, rolling over. ‘I’ll be down in half an hour. I need more sleep.’

‘But you have to get up now! You said we could go bodyboarding and have a ride on the sea tractor.’

I raise my head and squint blearily at the gap between the curtains. Rain spatters against the glass.

‘Perhaps this afternoon or tomorrow, but the weather doesn’t look good this morning.’ I grab another pillow and wedge it beneath my neck.

‘It looks good to meeeee!’

Wren leaps off the bed and runs to my desk. I hear a sharp intake of breath.

‘Have you stubbed your toe?’

‘You didn’t sew any of the shapes!’

Aagh. I fell asleep before getting round to them!

I prop myself up on my elbows. ‘Sorry, I had an urgent email from Stanford and it couldn’t wait. I had to—’

‘B-b-but you promised!’ She swings around, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘You said it would be ready for me.’

I sit up, swinging my legs off the bed. ‘And I meant it, but unfortunately I had to do last-minute work and it meant pulling an all-nighter.’

‘I b-b-believed you.’ Her shoulders shake.

‘I’m sorry. It won’t take long... I can finish them off later.’

‘You won’t bother. You never keep your promises.’

‘That’s not true!’

‘Yes, it is! In the car here, you said we’d visit the beach whatever the weather. And last night you said we’d definitely go on the sea tractor. Now you’re saying this afternoon or tomorrow.’

‘Because... you won’t like getting wet on the beach.’

‘Yes, I will! The sea’s wet so rain doesn’t matter.’

‘All right. We’ll go in the sea later.’

Her voice rises several pitches. ‘You always say later , and it never happens!’

‘Can you please stop shouting?’

‘No!’ Her eyes glitter with tears. ‘You’re mean. You break promises all the time! You promised Mummy you’d look after me.’

‘B-b-but I am!’

I’m trying to get a grip on how rapidly our conversation is deteriorating.

‘Only because she forced you! I know you don’t want to.’

I stare at her, aghast. ‘That’s not true. What are you talking about?’

‘Your friend, Ollie, came over. I went to the toilet and heard you talking downstairs. Ollie said he wouldn’t want a kid, and you agreed with him. You said you didn’t have any choice – that you and Mummy never had a back-up plan.’

Ice rushes through my veins as I scramble to my feet. ‘I didn’t mean that, I promise.’

‘Your promises mean nothing!’ she yells. ‘You want a manual for me!’

‘That was a joke. A bad one, I’m sorry.’

‘ And you promised Mummy you’d look after me in Bristol, but you told Sophie we won’t be there for ever. Because you want to be in America. Stupid Stanford is all you care about, not me!’

‘I swear that’s not the case. You’re my daughter. I do care about you!’

Guilty patches crawl up my neck. I can’t admit that a return ticket to my old uni is being dangled in front of me, carrot-like.

‘Liar!’ she cries, pointing at the tell-tale marks.

I head over and try to put my arm around her shoulder, but she shakes me off, scrambling across the bed to put distance between us.

‘You don’t want me. You never did!’

‘I do, Wren!’

‘I want my mummy, not you. She loved me.’

I need to reassure her, make her understand, but my lungs constrict and I can’t catch my breath. I exhale heavily and bend over, attempting to relieve the pressure mounting in my ribcage as she darts to the door.

Mum appears, blocking Wren’s escape route.

‘What on earth’s going on?’ she asks, frowning. ‘Why are you both shouting?’

‘Adam doesn’t want me. I hate him! I wish I’d never met him!’ Wren bursts into tears, dodges past Mum and runs out.

The door to the spare bedroom slams shut. I inhale deeply through my nose for a count of four.

Mum stares at me. ‘Why would Wren think that?’

‘She overheard something I told a friend and misinterpreted it... She didn’t hear what else I said... looking after her was my decision, it wasn’t foisted on me.’

‘ Make her understand, Adam. This is important – a little girl’s feelings are at stake.’

I nod as my chest contracts further. I feel a panic attack coming on. I try to breathe deeply into my abdomen.

‘I’ll wait . . . until she’s calmed down . . . then we can have a proper, grown-up conversation.’

‘She’s eight years old! She’s not going to deal with this like an adult. She needs to hear you want and love her.’

‘I know. I will.’ I gulp. ‘I do.’

‘When? I love you dearly, Adam, but you drive me mad the way you put off everything. It’s your worst trait.’

‘Thanks, Mum!’ My chest rises and falls rapidly.

‘And yours is always piling on the pressure and criticising. Going to Stanford was the only definition of success for you and Dad.’ I take a shallow breath.

‘It’s all that ever mattered... so Dad could live it through me.

.. because he didn’t get in himself. Well, you should be thrilled.

.. Stanford’s considering offering me a postdoc research position after I get my PhD. ’

‘What? You’re returning?’ She shakes her head. ‘But I thought you were happy in Bristol? Wren too? You’re beginning to get her settled in her new life.’

‘Oh my God! I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I can’t win whatever I do. There’s absolutely no pleasing you!’

I storm past her and knock on the door of the spare bedroom, holding on to the frame as my vision blurs.

‘Go away!’ Wren yells. ‘I hate you! I want Grandma.’

Mum follows me on to the landing.

‘Perhaps you’re right. You should both take a moment.’

I open my mouth, but I can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

My mouth tingles, making it difficult to swallow. I lean my head against the wall as a wave of dizziness hits.

Mum touches my back gently. ‘Inhale for four, hold for four and let it out for four. That’s right.’

She remains at my side until the tunnel vision melts away and the discomfort in my chest lessens.

‘I’ll look after Wren,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you go for a run? It might clear your head and help you figure out what you want.’