Page 5

Adam

Wren thunders down the stairs and runs across the hall. She’ll throw open the kitchen door in five, four, three, two, one...

‘Good morning!’ I say brightly as the handle clicks. ‘It’s the countdown to another great day!’

I find an old Biro beneath a pile of takeaway menus and grab a scrap of paper. I need to write instructions for our nanny, Anna, who’s caught up in rush-hour traffic.

‘I’ll take you this morning as Anna’s running late. So are we, by the way... I just have to write her a quick note about your tea. Erm... how about chicken nuggets, or would you prefer pasta? Or...’

‘It’s my Show and Tell this morning,’ a surly voice interrupts.

‘Hmmm?’

‘My Show and Tell is today!’ Wren bellows.

‘No, it isn’t!’ My voice is high-pitched and squeaky as I scour the calendar on the fridge.

Nothing! Empty white boxes stretch ahead until the end of the month.

I meant to put aside an hour this week to jot down everything coming up.

Better still, to continually update it the way other responsible parents probably do, but I never got round to doing either. Uncertainty grips me.

‘Wait . . . is it?’

I grab my phone to search for missed emails and find another text from Mum.

I tried calling again at the weekend. Do you know your plans for Easter yet? I’d love to see you and Wren if you have time! xx

I’ve been putting off speaking to her for weeks.

I need to tell her I’ve made other arrangements over the break, which also need to go on the calendar.

I scroll past dozens of unopened messages and find something from Dr Hunt, my supervisor at Stanford.

He’s sent another nudge about my dissertation deadline but I ignore it, hunting for a Show and Tell reminder.

Wren’s school and after-school clubs have fired off multiple missives.

She receives so much correspondence, I should have hired a PA rather than a nanny.

Before her mum, Carley, died, she made a file about Wren’s likes and dislikes, the names of her friends and other useful info, together with her funeral wishes.

But she never mentioned the huge volume of admin, let alone the dreaded year group WhatsApp, which I’ve muted for eternity.

Perhaps she feared it would put me off taking over her parenting reins.

‘Mummy would never have forgotten it was today.’

Wren’s carefully aimed barb finds my heart and slowly pierces it. She’s only eight years old but knows how to wound; her torture methods wouldn’t be out of place in the Spanish Inquisition.

I steel myself and turn around. I’d left cleanish navy leggings and a non-holey white top on her bed, something nice and plain to make her blend in with the other kids, which won’t potentially generate another school email.

Aagh!

She’s raided her mum’s old clothes again.

A mauve and blue tie-dye T-shirt hangs past her knees, twinned with bright pink leggings, a too-large sequin belt that’s looped over twice and a huge green cardigan.

She’s rolled up the sleeves, but her hands remain hidden.

I’d emptied Carley’s wardrobe into boxes when I packed up their flat last summer; I thought we could go through everything together at a later point.

I’ve been storing the containers in the loft, but Wren made me bring them down a few weeks ago.

My former girlfriend was always a flash of colour on campus when everyone else lived in oversized university-branded sweatshirts and jeans, but she clearly became way more hippyish after graduating from Stanford.

My gaze rests on the strings of Carley’s purple beads around Wren’s neck.

The school’s ‘no jewellery’ rule flashes into my mind in letters as large as the Hollywood sign in LA, followed by the words ‘not clean’ as I spot a juice stain on her top.

My daughter crosses her arms tightly and glares back, challenging me to tell her to take off her mum’s necklaces or the dirty T-shirt.

Of course, I don’t. I could add a whole new chapter to Carley’s file about my top ten avoidance techniques; I’ll be able to teach a class on the subject at Stanford when I eventually return.

I finally find the Show and Tell email. It’s been clicked open, but I don’t remember reading the contents.

‘I’m sorry, Wren. I have no idea how it slipped my mind.’

‘I do! Because it’s not there .’

She jabs her finger accusingly at the calendar, and my heart sinks further as I spot the sparkly pink nail polish. That will be another black mark against us.

‘Mummy always wrote important stuff on our calendar. Why don’t you, Adam ?’

I try not to flinch at the word. She’s refused to call me Dad or Daddy ever since Carley first introduced us eighteen months ago.

I’d even settle for the more formal Father, but I guess I should be grateful she doesn’t call me Dickhead or Arsehole.

I honestly feel those could be her personal preferences.

‘I know, I know... You’re right. I need to get more organised. It’s not too late to bring something in.’

The voice inside my head screams it is ... we should have been out of the door five minutes ago. I don’t want to do the walk of shame across the reception office twice this week, particularly when I’m a teacher, albeit at a different school.

‘Let’s think of something together. Why don’t you take a book? How about... a Horrid Henry ?’

The look she shoots me is pure, icy disdain. ‘I stopped reading those years ago. They’re for little kids.’

I’m racking my brains, trying to remember what Carley wrote in the file about reading.

I’m sure Horrid Henry was among her favourite books.

I rub my throbbing temples. I used to easily memorise rafts of formulae for my A levels and at uni, but now I barely remember if I’ve shaved.

The lack of sleep is killing me. I’m juggling teaching, looking after Wren and trying to finish my dissertation, and failing at all three.

In my defence, much of Carley’s file has become outdated; Wren no longer listens to the music she stated she loves and refuses to eat her supposedly top-choice meals even when I haven’t burned them.

It’s hard to keep up with all the changes in her despite regularly scouring Carley’s notes and reading parenting manuals, hoping to find useful advice.

Becoming a full-time dad seven months ago was akin to sitting my final exams after being given the four-year syllabus just thirty minutes ahead of time, with missing pages.

However hard I attempt to cram in all the details about Wren’s life before I knew she existed, there’s still a vast amount to learn.

Clearly, I’m not destined to pass this subject with distinction. I’ll be lucky to get a D.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll find something while you have a bowl of cereal.’ I dart out of the room and run upstairs before she declares I’ve bought the wrong brand of cornflakes.

Wren’s bedroom looks like it’s been hit by a tornado.

Her dirty clothes are strewn across the carpet, mixed up with Carley’s.

The cardboard box is on its side, with more of my ex-girlfriend’s vibrant blouses, dresses and skirts spilling out.

I don’t have time to stuff everything back in.

Frantically, I scour the shelves for something worthy of discussion.

.. her gemstones? Multicoloured toy unicorns?

The framed picture of Wren and Carley at Bristol Zoo?

My gaze rests on the bedside table. Four more photos of them together face her pillow, squeezing out room for anything else.

There’s no sign of the selfie I took of the three of us while Carley was having chemo; it’s the only one we had framed.

My heart squeezes as I find it face down in her bedside table drawer, buried beneath tissues and lip balms. I pick it up.

Perhaps Wren could talk about us? I can almost hear my daughter howling with laughter downstairs.

I’m not exactly her favourite topic. Plus, understandably, she doesn’t want to remember her mum ill and with a scarf covering her hair loss.

I return it to the drawer and rearrange the tissues to conceal my snooping.

I stare at Carley’s face in the photos on display.

They were taken months before she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Her long auburn hair falls around her shoulders.

Her mouth is parted into a wide smile as she hugs Wren, who looks like her doppelg?nger, even down to the symmetrical freckles on her nose.

Wren is the happiest I’ve ever seen her; she’s certainly never grinned like that at me.

Give her time , Carley had advised after I met Wren for the first time and she refused to look at me or answer my questions. This will be a huge adjustment for both of you after I’ve gone.

I wish I’d asked her how long it might take for my daughter to like me, and how Carley made being a mum look easy and effortless. What was her formula for working and being a good parent? I hope I’ll discover the solution soon.

The urn on the bookshelf containing her ashes isn’t giving up its secrets.

It brings comfort to Wren, but the metal’s judgemental glare scorches through my shirt and finds bare skin.

Buried among the detritus of clothes, abandoned plates and empty orange juice cartons is Carley’s old uni sweatshirt.

I only remember her wearing it a couple of times, but I grab it and run downstairs.

Bursting into the kitchen, I find Wren eating her cereal slowly and mechanically.

‘How about this?’ I ask, brandishing the cardinal-red top. ‘I can tell you about the history of Stanford on the way to school. You could talk about how your mum was a member of the robotics club. That’s how we met. She was a senior, so we didn’t share any classes.’